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“You^re just tired, dear'^ 




RHODY 


BY 

FRANCES S. BREWSTER 


“Love SufFereth Long, and is Kind” 



PHILADELPHIA 

GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Copyright, 1912 

By George W. Jacobs & Company 
Published September, 1912 




) 






« 

> 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
PRINTED IN U. S. A. 


gCI.A320558 


R H O D Y 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

“ You’re just tired, dear ”... Frontispiece 

The girl stood staring about her . Facing page 34 
“ You and I can’t starve, Johnnie ” “ “ 144 

They met midway of the path . ‘‘ ‘‘ 206 ^ 



R H O D Y 


CHAPTER I 

It was four o’clock of a fresh June morning. 
Little Rhody, clad only in her nightgown, 
peered warily from the woodhouse door at her 
father as he passed through the yard and dis- 
appeared into the milking-shed. 

“ He’s gone now, M’randy,” she whispered 
to the hideous rag doll she held in her arms, 
“ we’ll have to hurry, though.” 

She ran swiftly over a patch of greensward 
to the foot of a rickety wooden windmill. 

“Now, don’t you squeal if I scrunch you 
’gainst the rungs,” she said, beginning cau- 
tiously to mount a ladder built against one side 
of the crazy structure. As she climbed, the 
rotting frame creaked and swayed under even 
her light weight. At last she reached the di- 
lapidated platform at the top, and heaved a sigh 
of great content, thankful that the ascent had 
been made without mishap, for well she knew 
she was drinking deep of forbidden pleasure. 

9 


R H O D Y 


She looked like an elf perched there, so high 
aloft, her elbows resting on her knees, her face 
propped between her hands, long masses of 
chestnut hair enveloping her. Thus she sat as 
she gazed wistfully at the distant hills that lay 
like purple clouds close to the horizon. 

“ Oh, MVandy,” she said, rousing from her 
reverie, “ if only you and me could go over 
there to t’other side, wouldn’t we have a time? 
To big cities like Springfield and London, same 
as Jeremiah told about. In them big places, 
the men folks is so nice they spread their cloaks 
over all the puddles, so’s the ladies in long 
trains won’t spile their sating slippers. Oh,” 
with a sigh, “ it’s beautiful over there, every 
one is so grand — men in top boots, lace ruffles, 
and cigars in their mouths, and the ladies so 
beautiful and rich they just trail their dresses 
curless in the dust.” 

Miranda’s pie face expressed astonishment — 
but then Miranda always did seem surprised. 
“ Yes’m,” insisted Rhody looking into the star- 
ing eyes of her treasure, “that’s sol Clara 
May read it to me out of a book.” 

This conclusive statement was not refuted by 

lO 


R H O D Y 


the rag doll; she fell face forward on the plat- 
form, with arms outstretched, and the child 
was left to her meditations. 

For some time she watched with dreamy eyes 
the prospect spread before her. The distant 
undulating hills rose gently up and up toward 
the fleecy clouds that floated slowly over the 
summer sky; the river, winding afar like a silver 
thread across the fertile meadows, now lost 
itself amid the overhanging willows and again 
stole between its bushy banks where clambering 
vines dipped to the sun-tinted waters. Cattle 
grazed in the valley pastures; here and there 
stately elms cast long shadows over the dewy 
fields; under the hillsides nestled groups of 
maples, almost hiding from view the homes 
they sheltered. 

Smoke curling from the chimney of one of 
these homes arrested the little girl’s attention 
and brought her from dreamland back to earth. 
She lifted Miranda from the platform and 
placed her on her lap. 

“ Mis’ Perkins is awake, see her chimbly 
smoke? Pore thing, she’s been watching with 
Dick all night, most like — he has brown kit- 

IX 


R H O D Y 


ties on the lungs; must be awful; guess you and 
me’d better run over after dinner and take a 
spell o’ care of the baby, so’s Mis’ Perkins can 
rest; my ban’s all out o’ baby tendin’, though, 
sence Josiah went into pants. I wish ” — she 
continued after a pause — “ I wish a baby’d 
come to us, ’cept for Ma, Pa’d take on so awful 
if one did come — land sakes, M’randy, here 
he comes I Don’t speak! If ye do. I’ll spank 
you good.” 

Abiram Markham, returning with shuffling 
slowness from the barnyard, carried in each 
hand a pail brimming with frothy milk. His 
appearance, at once grotesque and forlorn, was 
not, however, out of keeping with his immedi- 
ate surroundings. 

The farm, in his father’s time, — along in 
the thirties — had been one of the finest home- 
steads of the New England foothills: now, it 
was but a melancholy caricature of the past. 
Barns were tumbling to pieces; fences were 
down; gates swung on rusty hinges, or swung 
not at all. The windmill, the erection of which 
had marked an epoch in the history of the 
county, now feebly stood a pitiful reminder of 

X9 


R H O D Y 


departed strength and glory: with bolts and 
bars rusted and trusses fallen away, It swayed 
and groaned as it tried still to do Its work. 

Abiram’s pails were heavy and he felt com- 
pelled after every step or two to set them 
down and rest. As fate would have it, one 
of his resting places was directly under the 
windmill. He put his pails on the ground 
carefully, removed his hat and ran his fingers 
through his thin, damp hair. He was one of 
those long, lanky Individuals seemingly made 
up of left-overs strung together after no par- 
ticular design. His head was too small; his 
limbs were too long; his features were thin 
and sharp; and his shifty blue eyes, set deep 
under heavy brows, gave a peculiar and al- 
most sinister expression to his weak, good- 
natured face. He wore a red flannel shirt, 
so much too small for him as to suggest a gar- 
ment belonging to one of his sons; his trousers, 
a pair of homespun overalls, were several 
sizes too large and the right leg was tucked 
Into the top of a high leather boot, while the 
other fell in loose folds over a well-worn car- 
pet slipper ; — and thus he stood lazily survey- 
's 


R H O D Y 


ing the windmill from bottom to top. At the 
top his eye rested on the figure of his night- 
gowned daughter hugging her doll and sitting 
as rigidly still as a “ frozen ” cotton-tail. 

“ Rhody,” he whined, “ consarn ye, come 
daown aout o’ that to onct.” 

“ Sh, Pa, I ain’t cornin’ yet,” she called in 
a loud whisper. 

“ Yas, you be, Rhody, come daown, I say, 
or I’ll tell your Ma.” 

“ Better not. Pa, ’cause if you do. I’ll tell 
Ma your other boot’s out by the hen-house; 
Rover chewed it up.” 

Abiram caught Rhody’s mischievous grin, 
and was about to retreat when a puff of wind 
and an effort to pump caused the windmill to 
shiver and sway so ominously that he became 
seriously concerned for the child’s welfare. 
He therefore picked up his pails with unusual 
alacrity and resolutely strode toward the house. 
As he entered the kitchen his wife was prepar- 
ing the morning meal, and Abiram, ignoring 
Rhody’s threat to reveal the whereabouts of 
the missing boot, put his grievance before 
her. 

14 


R H O D Y 


“ Sairy,” he drawled, “ that child’s up in 
the windmill ag’in, — seems like she’s be- 
witched; guess I’ll have to pull it daown to 
cure her.” 

“ Pull down the windmill to cure her of 
climbin’ it! What’s the matter with you, 
’Biram Markham, anyway? ” asked Sarah, turn- 
ing upon him, “ you go make her come down.” 

“ I can’t, Sairy, ’tain’t no use; often and 
often I’ve forbid her climbin’ that rickety 
thing, and so hev you. I can’t jaw her, jawin’ 
ain’t in my line, and onless ye jaw children you 
can’t control ’em.” 

Sarah had been cutting bread while her 
spouse was delivering himself of this bit of 
philosophy; when he finished, she put down her 
knife with a good deal of energy and moved 
toward the fireplace as she answered, — “ Wal, 
I kin jaw and I kin control. Get me the car- 
pet slipper from behind the oven while I set 
the porridge to one side, I’ll — ” She turned 
and caught Bi in the act of removing the slip- 
per in question from his foot. “ How come 
that slipper off the hook and on your foot 
’Biram?” she asked sternly. 


R H O D Y 


“ Wal, ye see, Sairy, it was awful dusky like 
when I got up this mornin’, you routed me aout 
so early, and my boot — ” But Sarah had not 
stayed to listen; she had gone after the other 
delinquent, who at that moment was making 
the perilous descent. 

The mother waited in grim silence, slipper 
in hand, until the last rung was reached, and 
Rhody, holding Miranda very close, stood 
panting before her. Sarah was a kind woman, 
devotedly fond of her children, and the sight 
of little Rhody, with eyes turned pleadingly 
toward her, softened, but did not turn her 
from her purpose, for she firmly believed that 
to spare the slipper would mean ruin to her 
offspring; she therefore administered then and 
there a chastisement which cured Rhody of 
her mania for windmills. 

Upon her return to the house Sarah found 
Abiram looking very doleful. 

“ Did you whip her, Sairy? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered curtly. 

“ Didn’t it hurt you most ’s much as her?” 

“ P’raps,” she replied as she served up the 
porridge. 

z6 


R H O D Y 


“ Wal naow, ain’t my way best? Hurts no 
one and saves future trouble.” 

“ Takin’ away drink from a drunkard ain’t 
agoin’ to cure him of drinkin’, ’Biram,” an- 
swered Sarah. “ You want to pull down the 
windmill to save Rhody bein’ tempted up there. 
It’s like drink to her, up there is, and you want 
to save yourself the trouble of wrastlin’ with 
her.” 

“ The old thing’s on its last laigs.” 

“ Mebbe, but if you let it alone it’ll hitch 
water up somehow inside of twenty-four 
hours, and, besides, Rhody ain’t agoin’ up it 
no more.” 

“ Y-a-a-s, but she’ll be a longin’ tew 
jest the same,” commented Abiram. “ I tell 
you, Sairy, the responsibility of raisin’ a 
fambly is jest about wearin’ me aout.” 

“ Humph,” was Sarah’s rejoinder as she 
tugged at the rope of the farm bell. 

“ Whatever would happen if I should be 
took off suddent like?” moaned Abiram. 
“ That thought keeps me daown continual.” 

“ Wal,” answered Sarah, squaring about as 
the children trooped in to breakfast, “ you’d 
17 


R H O D Y 


better git up and git and stop crossin’ bridges 
as ain’t in yer way.” 

Abiram had made no mis-statement when he 
reminded his wife that she had routed him out 
early. He was due in Rodney, two miles down 
the turnpike, with some farm produce, and 
Sarah was determined he should get there on 
time. 

Abiram Markham had never been known to 
do one thing worth while in all his life except, 
as Sarah’s Uncle Joab Drummond once said, 
to marry Sarah Price; only her energy and in- 
dustry saved him from utter ruin; but after 
the ninth child came, to bless this otherwise 
profitless union, even she lost some of her 
spirit. 

Returning at noon from Rodney, Abiram 
handed Sarah a letter which proved to be an 
invitation for her and himself to attend a cele- 
bration of the golden wedding of the afore- 
mentioned Uncle Joab Drummond. The 
letter was written by Aunt Hetty, Uncle Joab’s 
wife; in it she expressed the wish of herself 
and Uncle Joab that as many of the relatives 
— including the children — as could do so, 

i8 


R H O D Y 


would attend upon this important occasion. 
If both Sarah and Abiram could not leave 
home, could not Sarah and two or more of the 
children be spared for a day or so? Aunt 
Hetty had privately expressed the hope that 
this would be the case, but like as not Bi, not 
Sarah, will come,” she had concluded. 

After carefully reading the letter, Sarah, 
with characteristic decision, announced that her 
going was out of the question, — in fact, she 
saw no possibility of any one’s accepting. But 
Abiram, less prone to settle things promptly, 
and reluctant to give up too hastily such a 
treat, decided to take an afternoon off for medi- 
tation. Accordingly he sought the seclusion of 
the wash-bench near the woodshed door, under 
a large mulberry tree whose spreading branches 
nearly covered the roof of the lean-to. Here 
in the cooling shade he alternately whittled 
skewers and dozed; for Abiram believed, albeit 
unconsciously, that often in the silent depths of 
sleep we get some of our best inspirations. 
The result was that by supper time he had a 
small stock of skewers and a large plan. 

“ Sairy,” he said, “ I ben thinkin’ so hard 
19 


R H O D Y 


Tm near wore out, but I figger like this here 
— ef a man’s to keep up in this world he must 
hev some fling; I don’t know how it is, but 
lately I seem to feel listless, no ambeeshun, 
p’raps I need a change.” 

He paused a moment to note the effect of his 
words, but Sarah went steadily on with her 
work and made no reply. 

“ Naow ef I was to take three of the chil- 
dren, our board saved to home would almost 
pay the stage fares, and ” — casting a sidelong 
look at his wife who stood grimly pouring milk 
into a jug — “ you’d git three days o’ rest, with 
s’ many gone.” 

Sarah was about to open her lips for a word 
of protest when something checked her — 
three whole days with Abiram and his ever- 
lasting platitudes out of the way was perhaps an 
alluring prospect; whatever it was, she never 
made it known, but stated tersely and finally 
what she had to say. 

“ What you and the children would save to 
hum, ’Biram, wouldn’t pay the half fare of 
one of ye to Lancaster. I ain’t used the calf 
money for my new dress, ye kin have that; 

20 


R H O D Y 


it won’t cost much ef you take Rhody and Lucy 
and J’siah. They’ll go half-fare.” 

At supper there was wild excitement when 
the proposed visit was announced; nothing like 
this had ever been known to happen before. 

“ Where clothes Is cornin’ from, for the 
children, ’s more’n I can see,” Sarah announced 
dejectedly, as she and Clara May were doing 
up the supper things; “ain’t one on ’em has 
a hull outfit to their names.” 

“ Oh, we’ll fix ’em up, Ma,” said Clara May, 
“ when the table’s cleared we’ll get everything 
down and see.” 

There was a scurrying back and forth from 
cupboards and attic, after the tea things had 
been put away, and Sarah and Clara May 
worked far into the night putting two and two 
together In the effort to make out, for each 
child, a whole costume. At last their patience 
was rewarded. For Lucy, a skirt of Eugenia’s, 
a waist that Rhody had outgrown, and a hat 
of her own; Rhody could wear Clara May’s 
leghorn with a brown ribbon about the crown 
and her own brown calico dress, which, though 
much mended and patched like a crazy-quilt, 
21 


R H O D Y 


would do very well when starched and pressed. 
Josiah was a problem, for being very short 
and very fat and having lately gone into 
trousers, there seemed to be nothing suitable 
for him in the pile upon the table. At last, 
Clara selected a pair of trousers that had been 
worn by John some time before; into these 
they put Josiah, but the waist-band was too 
tight by three inches and the seat flopped 
against the calves of his chubby legs. Despair 
seized the mother and sister. 

“ Take a tuck,” suggested Rhody. 

With the help of pins this was done, and 
while it must be admitted that the effect did 
not make for style, it was finally decided that 
when neatly sewed and pressed down, the seam 
would not be noticed. 

“ My land, Ma, no one’s goin’ to look at 
him anyhow among so many folks,” was Clara 
May’s comforting assurance. 

“ Perhaps not,” assented the mother with a 
sigh, “ but I’d like to send ’em looking half- 
ways decent. I wish I’d never said they could 
go, but it would break their hearts to stop ’em 
now.” 


22 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER II 

The day of departure dawned warm and 
fair. The entire family was up at daybreak, 
for the stage would be along about seven and 
there were finishing touches to be put to the 
toilet of each young traveler. 

“ Ma, shall I crimp Rhody’s hair?” asked 
Clara May who was assisting her mother. 

“ My land! no, Clara; don’t let her hair fly, 
ef she should stick her head out the stagecoach 
winder — and she will, like as not — her long 
hair’d git caught in the wheels and her hull 
skelp tore off; no, jest braid it as tight as you 
kin and let it go at that.” 

“ Well then, come here, Lucy,” commanded 
Clara May, “ and I’ll put the tongs on you.” 

She reached down and drew from the coals 
a pair of crimping tongs. She had borrowed 
them from Clarissa Crump for this occasion. 
Clarissa had told Clara May only a few 
days before how extremely modish creping had 
23 


R H O D Y 


become and had explained the process. Little 
Lucy stood like a lamb at the shearing. She 
shut her eyes tight, and opened her mouth wide, 
as Clara pinched each tightly rolled knob of 
hair. 

“ Don’t squirm like that, Lucy, I ain’t agoin’ 
to hurt you,” she expostulated. 

“ It’s awful hot,” whimpered Lucy. 

“ Shucks I them’s not hot, see now, we’ll undo 
em. 

She started to untie the rag which held one 
of the lower rolls, but scarcely had she touched 
it before the whole thing, rag and hair, came 
off in her hand. 

“ Oh, Ma, look! ” she screamed, holding the 
coil of burnt hair in her hand at arm’s length 
for her mother to see. 

“ Clara May, what have ye done? ” groaned 
Sarah, leaving Josiah in the wash-tub, a 
statuette of white lather, and rushing over to 
the horrified Clara and the shrieking Lucy. 

Rhody had been out of the room, but hear- 
ing Lucy’s wild cries, came running in. “ Oh, 
pshaw!” she cried, “don’t take on so, no 
harm’s done; the top crimp’ll cover that. I cut 
24 


R H O D Y 


a chunk out’n my hair to make M’randy a wig 
and none of you sensed it.” 

Thus reassured, Clara May decided to see if 
a like fate had befallen the remaining twenty 
curls. Two, three, four, and five of the under 
row came off as she tried to undo them, and a 
wail went up in the house of Markham. But 
Clara May, who had wrought the havoc, was 
a valiant soul, and so, between the Intervals of 
mopping her eyes and blowing her nose, she 
carefully undid those In the upper row; they 
were safe. Every little crimp was crimped 
within an inch of its life, done to the queen’s 
taste, and together they formed, when combed 
out, a brick-red aureole about the face of little 
Lucy. Then the atmosphere cleared; cheer 
was restored; and Lucy, after being buttoned 
Into Rhody’s salmon-pink blouse and Eugenia’s 
maroon skirt, was told to “ set down and be a 
good girl.” 

Joslah came forth from the hands of his 
mother shining with soap and pomade, in ruf- 
fled shirt, and tucked trousers — not so bad, 
after all — with a Scotch bonnet capping his 
curly head. 

as 


R H O D Y 


While Lucy and Josiah were being made 
ready, Rhody and John and Eugenia were div- 
ing wildly about the room, under tables and 
chairs, behind bureaus, and into cupboards. 

“ Rhody ! children I stop that playin’ ; Rhody, 
you won’t be fit to look at ’fore ever you start; 
set down, do,” called Sarah. 

“ We ain’t playin’, Ma,” answered Rhody, 
coming up from behind a settle and tossing her 
long braids back from her flushed cheeks, 
“ we’re huntin’ for a pair of shoes as match.” 

Consternation again seized the family; foot- 
gear for Rhody had been overlooked, “ and 
now what?” A prunella boot for one foot 
and a congress gaiter for the other were all the 
occasion offered. 

But what of it? Rhody in her clean buff 
calico and big leghorn hat could not be spoiled 
for lack of petty detail. Her face was aglow 
with joy, her eyes were bright with expecta- 
tion, for was she not going — actually going 
— to penetrate into the mysteries of that far 
country beyond the purple foot-hills, about 
which she had wondered so often while perched 
in her eyrie, the windmill? 

26 


R H O D Y 


The stage horn sounded as Abiram emerged 
from a wing room, so tightly encased in his 
wedding suit of blue broadcloth and brass but- 
tons that he could not stoop to give farewell 
kisses to the smallest members of his family. 

“ I must have growed some, Salry,” he said, 
grinning; “ ef I move much Pm feared to good- 
ness I’ll bust out o’ this.” 

A motley company was that which entered 
the old stagecoach. “ Good-bye, Ma, Good- 
bye,” the children called. 

“ Good-bye, Ma, we’ll soon be back! ” cried 
Rhody, leaning far out of the window as the 
stage swung round the curve. 

“Thar! ” exclaimed Sarah, turning to Clara 
May, “ what’d I tell ye, ef her hair’d been a 
hanging she’d ’a’ been skelped afore our eyes.” 

The Golden Wedding had been a complete 
success; at least, that was Rhody’s verdict; but 
Abiram, as he led his small flock Into the wait- 
ing room of the Little Tiger three days later, 
showed no signs of having received the spur 
to ambition he predicted his little fling would 
give him. He looked woebegone and wilted. 

27 


R H O D Y 


The two younger children seemed in no better 
condition. Josiah, as he reached the center 
of the room, planted his short, fat legs firmly 
apart, threw back his dusty, perspiring head, 
and, without rhyme or reason, set up such a 
wail that the men in the bar-room rushed to 
the door to see what was the matter. Josiah’s 
distress was contagious: Lucy flung herself face 
down upon the floor and joined in his lamenta- 
tions. 

Rhody flew to the rescue, and succeeded 
shortly in quieting them. She lifted the shriek- 
ing Josiah in her arms and staggered with him 
across the floor. She wiped his tear-stained 
face and smoothed back the tangled mass of 
curls, then, tenderly kissing him, laid him down 
on the wooden settee and made a pillow of her 
jacket for his head. 

“Now go to sleep, lovey,” she crooned; 
“ sister’ll call you when the stage comes. Come 
now, Lucy, I’ll lay you down and put the car- 
pet bag under your head for a pillow — funny 
pillow, ain’t it?” she asked merrily, and Lucy, 
still sobbing, picked herself up and came to 
where Rhody stood. 

2 % 


R H O D Y 


“Now lay still; you’re tuckered out, ain’t 
ye? ” 

“ Yes,” moaned Lucy, “ I et too much. I 
want M-a-a.” 

“ There, there,” whispered Rhody, “ we’ll 
soon be home; it’s near eight now and the 
stage’ll be here at nine; now, there, go to sleep. 
I’ll call ye. Pa, you goin’ to sleep, too? ” she 
asked, glancing over her shoulder at her de- 
jected parent. 

“ No, Rhody, no, I ain’t sleepy, I’m jest dis- 
couraged.” 

“What at?” ; 

“ Oh, seein’ prosp’rous folks like Uncle 
Joab and them; strange how luck follys some 
and gives others the go-by.” 

Rhody, foreseeing a lengthy dissertation 
upon growing families, withdrew to a corner of 
the room. 

“ Well, if you ain’t going to sleep, I guess 
I will; call me. Pa, when the stage comes.” 

Now it so happened that, among those who 
had come from the bar to the waiting room 
to learn the meaning of Josiah’s unseemly be- 
havior, there was one man who lingered, after 
29 


R H O D Y 


the others had returned to the bar, and watched 
Rhody’s manoeuvres with the children. 

“ I swan,” he said to himself, “ there’s a girl 
with all the g’s rolled into one — grace, grit 
and gumption; she’s jest the sort I’m huntin’ 
for to help Marthy, and she’s young enough to 
come cheap.” He sauntered over to Abiram. 

“Coin’ away?” he queried. 

“ Nope,” was Abiram’s laconic reply. 

“ Ben away? ” 

“Y-a-a-s: me and the child’en’s been over 
visitin’ some fren’s; a golding weddin’; 
we’re all tuckered aout — all ’cept Rhody there, 
ye can’t tucker her.” 

“ She seems to hev lots of go and gumption,” 
assented the man. 

“ I sh’d say,” returned Bi, “ she’s the smart- 
est and sassiest I have, and there’s nine of ’em.” 

“ Is that so!” 

“ She takes some arter me; I’m smart ’nough 
nat’rally, only raisin’ sech a fambly’s what’s 
broke me daown; it’s the werry, alles werryin’ 
fer fear o’ bein’ took. Whatever would they 
do ’thout me! My wife she often says, ‘Jest 
git up and git and go to work and leave that 
30 


R H O D Y 


bridge tell ye come to it,’ but I can’t; I’m so 
awful conscientious ’bout sech things.” 

“ Ain’t never thought ’bout farmin’ any of 
’em out, have ye? ” asked the man. 

“ No-o, can’t say es I hev.” 

“ Wouldn’t let me have that biggest gal, 
would ye? I ain’t got no children. I’ve a 
good farm and would bring her up like a lady, 
school her and all.” 

“Ye would! would ye fer a fac’?” and 
Abiram became animated. 

The two men then dropped their voices, and 
the conversation was carried on in undertones 
until the stage was announced. 

It was nine o’clock at night; there were no 
passengers except the Markham family, and, 
as this was not a changing place nor a station 
of any consequence, there was not the usual 
noise and bustle attendant upon the arrival and 
departure of the stagecoach at more important 
places. It was, therefore, with difficulty that 
Abiram roused the sleeping Josiah and Lucy 
and with the help of the man carried them out, 
leaving Rhody fast asleep in the waiting room 
of the Little Tiger. 


31 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER III 

Mrs. Ezekiel Martin had covered the 
embers for the night and was setting bread and 
cheese on the table for her husband’s supper, 
when that belated gentleman stumbled into the 
kitchen, bearing in his arms a child, whose pite- 
ous moans brought the woman quickly to his 
side. 

“ What have ye there, ’Zekel? ” she cried. 

“ I thought I had a gal, Marthy, but I’ll be 
hanged if she ain’t more like a wild-cat,” re- 
plied Ezekiel as he set his burden down. 

The girl backed up against the wall and 
stood for a moment wildly staring about her; 
then, as her eyes fell upon the man, with a 
scream she sank unconscious to the floor. 

“ Why, ’Zekel she’s in a ragin’ fever,” said 
Martha, stooping over her; “ help me get her 
to bed.” 

In a small room off the kitchen, Rhody Mark- 
ham lay dangerously ill and delirious for many 

3 ^ 


R H O D Y 


weeks ; then slowly, very slowly, she crept back 
to consciousness and life. 

Coming to herself for the first time during 
her illness, she saw Mrs. Martin standing by 
her bedside. 

“ Where am I ? Where am I ? ” she wailed. 

“ You’re all right,” answered the woman, 
showing little sympathy in either voice or look. 

“ Let me up I ” cried Rhody, making an 
effort to rise. “Where’s Pa? Pa!” 

“What’s all this noise?” asked Ezekiel, 
coming into the room with anything but a pleas- 
ant expression on his mean, crafty face. 

Rhody recognized him. It was the weasel- 
faced man she had seen at the Little Tiger. 
Overcome with terror, she again lapsed Into un- 
consciousness. 

Later, when consciousness returned, she was 
alone. She glanced about her curiously, trying 
to understand her surroundings. The small 
room was scrupulously neat, much better than 
anything she had been used to — what did It 
mean? Where could she be? Gradually a 
memory dawned upon her clouded brain — a 
number of people making merry and she one 
33 


R H O D Y 


of the merriest. The picture faded to be 
quickly replaced by that of a tavern and a large 
bare room; rude settles were ranged against 
the walls and on one of these Lucy and Josiah 
slept; once more a shift of scene, and a man 
was leaning over her — “ Ye’re my gal now! ” 
Here memory forsook her. She pressed her 
hands to her aching forehead — and then — 
what happened then? “Think, think!” she 
murmured, desperately — oh, yes ! yes ! now she 
remembered: she had fought, and bitten, and 
scratched; she had cried for help as the man 
had forced her into the stage. 

Exhaustion followed this effort of recollec- 
tion. She lay shivering among the pillows. 
“ Oh, Ma ! ” she sobbed bitterly, “ Oh, Ma, 
come ! ” 

Mrs. Martin heard her and entered the 
room. 

“ Oh, Marm,” cried Rhody trying to catch 
at the woman’s dress. “ Oh, Marm, take me 
to Ma.” 

“ Don’t cry,” said Martha, somewhat soft- 
ened by the little girl’s distress; “when you’re 
able to get up we’ll see what kin be done ; don’t 
34 



The girl stood staring about her 




R H O D Y 


let ’Zekel hear ye, though, you’ll anger him, he 
can’t abear cryin’.” 

“If they’ll let me go home when I’m well,” 
thought Rhody, “ the thing for me to do is to 
get well’s quick’s I can.” 

With great determination she set her poor, 
weak self to the task, and a hard one she found 
it; but hers was an unconquerably plucky spirit, 
and by degrees she pulled herself together. 

Mrs. Martin was inclined to be kind, but the 
woman was crushed and cowed, and had little 
left in her nature that could respond to a child 
— a heart-sick child fighting for life and liberty. 
Nevertheless, Rhody tried to like her; but for 
Ezekiel she felt nothing but aversion. The 
shock she had received at his hands was one 
from which she would be long in recovering. 

When strength permitted, she crept into the 
kitchen and endeavored to help. Martha was 
an undemonstrative, taciturn woman and gave 
little heed to Rhody now that she no longer 
needed nursing. 

“ Land knows, this sickness o’ hern has set 
me back weeks in the work,” she complained to 
a neighbor. 


35 


R H O D Y 


On the other hand, Ezekiel watched Rhody 
with Interest and ere long he was convinced that 
his Investment had been a good one. He urged 
his wife to keep her busy. 

“Ye can’t let chlld’en lay Idle, they’re sure 
to get Into mischief.” 

Rhody had youth and abundant health, there- 
fore her strength returned quickly. 

“ Mis’ Martin,” she asked one day while 
wiping the dishes with Martha, “ when do you 
reckon I can go home ? ” 

“ Land, Rhody, I dunno,” answered Martha. 
“You be a reel good girl and we’ll see; 
’Zekel’s too awful crusty jest now to ask him.” 

“ Mis’ Martin, did Pa give me to Mister 
Martin? ” 

“ Yes; fur as I know.” 

“What for?” 

“ ’Cause your Pa he told ’Zekel how as he 
had sech a fambly as was killin’ him, and ’Zek 
he offered to take you and bring you up, and 
your Pa give you to him, then and thar.” 

Rhody’s eyes filled with tears. Now she 
understood: the same old complaint, “big 
fambly ” ; and her father had given her away I 
36 


R H O D Y 


Was it, perhaps, because she was not always 
obedient? The windmill episode came to 
mind. “ If only I ever get home Til never, 
never go ag’in him no more,” she vowed to 
herself. 

Martha noted the tears and the quivering 
lip, but continued her tale to the bitter end. 

“ He must be an awful queer man, your Pa 
must; why say, he never so much as asked 
’Zekel his name nor his whereabouts. ’Zek 
he’s sly and kep’ still; s’picioned, I reckon, your 
Ma’d not let the grass grow under her feet 
’fore she’d be here a’ter ye. And ’Zek he 
never asked your Pa where he lived nor his 
name — a purpose, I mistrust.” 

Rhody stared in amazement. 

“ Do you mean to say — ” 

“ I mean to say, so fur as I know ’em, all 
men is queer, but these two is the queerest yit,” 
answered Martha going into the pantry. 

With the hope ever before her that Ezekiel’s 
crusty fit would wear off, Rhody tried to make 
the best of a situation that at times seemed well- 
nigh unbearable. 

The Martins were thrifty; their farm was 
37 


R H O D Y 


well kept — a vast improvement, Rhody was 
forced to admit, upon her father’s dilapidated 
domain — but the life there was utterly cheer- 
less and lonely. 

The house stood at the top of a thickly 
wooded hill. South and east the low mountains 
rolled away in undulating succession ; north and 
west lay the valley; and farther away than the 
eye could see, except on rarely clear days, was 
a small town. A river almost entirely encom- 
passed the hill, but two large, covered bridges, 
one on the north and one on the west, afforded 
passage to and from the outer world. A 
wooded road connected the bridges and passed 
the house. Few travelers ever came that way, 
so that a captive maid in the stronghold of 
some robber lord was not more isolated than 
was Rhody. 

Her own home had been gay with the noise 
and bustle of a large family; here, when the 
work was done, for hours at a time, no sound 
broke the stillness, save the ticking of the clock 
and the incessant creak of Mrs. Martin’s 
rocker, as she swung back and forth, pale and 
silent, listlessly sewing. 

38 


R H O D Y 


As the days lengthened into weeks and the 
weeks into months and Ezekiel was still de- 
clared too crusty to be approached, Rhody de- 
termined to take the bull by the horns. 

Her heart failed her many times before she 
made the final plunge. 

Summer was fading into autumn: the roads 
would soon be blocked with snow and then 
she knew all chance of getting home, for many 
months, would be gone. Poor little thing, she 
could neither read nor write, though twelve 
years old. She had no idea in what direction 
Rodney lay, nor were the Martins able to en- 
lighten her; they had never heard of the place. 
Desperation therefore urged her on. 

“ Mr. Martin, how soon can I go home? ” 
She put the question bluntly one evening at 
supper. 

Ezekiel, taken unawares, did not answer at 
once but fixed his weasel eyes upon her for a 
moment; then, leisurely tilting his chair, he 
threw back his head and burst into roars of 
laughter. Rhody could see no cause for merri- 
ment. She pushed back her chair and jumped 
to her feet. With clenched hands the angry 
39 


R H O D Y 


child went around the table and placed herself 
before him. 

“ Answer me I ” she commanded, staring into 
his face. 

Martha was frightened. When Ezekiel 
laughed like that there was sure to be some 
malice back of his mirth. She put up a warn- 
ing hand, hoping to restrain Rhody, but Rhody 
saw nothing and continued, looking steadily at 
her tormentor. 

“Answer me, when can I go home? ’’ 

“ How’d ye calk’late to git thar?” asked 
Ezekiel, calming down. 

“ The way I come.” 

“ Who’s agoin’ to take ye and pay your 
fare?” 

“ You, I s’pose,” she answered frankly. 

Ezekiel sprang toward her, “ Me, me pay 
your fare — what fer? Say, little gal, you 
listen to me; they don’t want you t’ hum. 
Never seen a man so took up with an idee ’s 
your Pa was when I s’gested he’d farm ye to 
me. He was that scairt you’d wake up when 
the stage come, he couldn’t git from that waitin’ 
room quick ’nough.” Again the man fell to 

40 


R H O D Y 


laughing; the remembrance seemed to please 
him. 

Hot tears blinded poor Rhody, but she strug- 
gled bravely to hide her anguish. 

“ W-what did you w-want of me? ” she man- 
aged to ask. “ You hate children, you said 
so yesterday.” 

“ Oh, we needed a gal — yer Pa said you 
was a corker to work, so I made him the offer 
to take you off’n his hands,” answered Ezekiel, 
with a shrug, as he thrust his hands into his 
pockets and gazed at the rafters over his head. 
Then bringing his evil gaze back to the stricken 
little soul before him, “ What complaints have 
ye? Ain’t ye got a good home, plenty to eat, 
good bed to sleep in ? What you mopin’ ’bout 
so everlastin’ ? ” 

Rhody was standing in the center of the 
room: she had slowly retreated during his 
cruel speech. 

“ Come, come, ’Zekel,” broke in Martha, 
touched by the child’s appealing looks, “ she’s 
a reel good little girl and does her work nice, 
too.” 

‘‘ Shet up,” was Ezekiel’s rejoinder to his 
41 


R H O D Y 


better half, “ this here is my business. Naow, 
little gal, you listen to me. — No, I ain’t goin’ 
to take ye, ner send ye, ner write yer folks 
about ye. I’m agoin’ to keep ye for the work 
as is in ye, and ef ye don’t do as I tell ye. I’ll 
make ye.” He stepped over and bent his face 
close to hers. “D’ye understand?” He 
turned then and left the room. 

Rhody remained where she was, her hands 
loosely clasped before her, her head bowed 
upon her breast. As the door closed she burst 
into tears; sob after sob shook her slight frame. 

Mrs. Martin watched her without speaking, 
awed by the grief of the child bowed beneath 
the burden of life, crushed with the ache of 
sorrow, the victim of unscrupulous tyranny and 
greed. She finally rose from her chair and 
went over to the little girl. “ Child,” she said, 
putting an arm about her, “ don’t take on so. 
I’m ’feared you’ll be sick again.” 

“ Oh, Mis’ Martin, what shall I do — what 
shall I do?” 

“ I dunno, I dunno, Rhody,” she answered 
hopelessly, “ make the best of it, I guess.” 

Rhody leaned her tired head on Martha’s 
42 


R H O D Y 


shoulder, responsive to the touch of sympathy. 

Presently she lifted her head and wiped her 
eyes. “ It’s like a prison here after home 
where there’s s’ many children ’bout; seems like 
I could stand it if there was children. Don’t 
you wish there was children, Mis’ Martin?” 

Martha drew back. 

“No,” she said fiercely; “no, this ain’t no 
place for children; you’re right, Rhody, it is 
a prison.” 

“ But even one little child all your own would 
cheer you so.” 

“ Don’t ! ” and Martha, suddenly grown 
deathly pale, clung to a chair for support. 

“ Oh, Marm, what have I said,” cried 
Rhody; “ what have I done to hurt you so? ” 

Martha leaned her head upon the back of 
the chair. “ I had a little girl once, Rhody, 
but ” — with a sudden gesture of defiance, — 
“ she was took from me like every other thing 
I’ve ever cared for.” 

From that time on, the friendship deepened 
between the woman and the child. With quick 
intuition, Rhody understood the process of 
hardening through which Martha Martin must 
43 


R H O D Y 


have passed; her own warm sympathies were 
aroused and she philosophically decided to try 
to make up to the woman, in some way, a part 
at least of what she had lost. With Rhody, 
to think was to act. She interested herself In 
all the work of the house, In the care of the 
chickens and the making of butter; and Mrs. 
Martin, partially divining the child’s desire 
to comfort and cheer, little by little unbent and 
responded to the magic of her nature, for Rho- 
dy’s sweetness and charm were irresistible. 
Untaught and peculiarly limited in experience, 
she nevertheless was so acutely alive to every 
kindness, so unselfish and, withal, so quaint 
and old-fashioned, that it would have been a 
cold heart indeed that could have failed to love 
her in the end. 

One day, shortly after the rather tragic 
events just mentioned, Rhody and Martha 
were sewing in the kitchen. Rhody was pa- 
tiently trying to piece a quilt patch, log-cabin 
being the pattern. 

“ Ain’t I the beateree at sewing? ” she said, 
laughing, as Martha, for the third time, made 
her rip out her stitches. 

44 


R H O D Y 


“ Didn’t your Ma ever try to learn you to 
sew?” asked Martha. 

“ No, Marm,” answered Rhody, “ I never 
sewed any to speak of, Ma had no time and, 
for a fac’, no more had I, till ’bout a year ago; 
you see I allers had a baby to mind.” 

She glanced hastily at Martha, not quite sure 
whether she had made a mistake in mentioning 
the babies, for since the night when she so ve- 
hemently bewailed the lack of them at the farm, 
the subject had not been mentioned between 
them. 

“ Go on, Rhody,” said Martha, understand- 
ing her hesitation, “ I’d like to have ye tell me 
’bout your brothers ’n’ sisters.” 

“ There ain’t much to tell,” replied Rhody, 
brightening; “they’re just children, but I’ve 
’bout raised Josiah and Lucy and Eugenia and 
they’re all the world to me, same’s M’randy 
is.” 

“Who’s Mirandy?” 

“ She’s my doll — say, but she’s humly,” and 
Rhody broke into a gale of merriment at the 
recollection of Miranda’s features. 

“ She’s a rag-doll that Grandma Price made 

45 


R H O D Y 


for Ma, and every one of us has had her for 
her doll down to me. Lucy has her now, I 
s’pose,” she broke off with a slight quiver in 
her voice, “ but for all her humliness there’s 
something ’bout M’randy you can’t help lov- 
ing. Dolls is an awful comfort, you can tell 
’em all you think and they won’t tell on you, 
and when you get mad you can spank ’em and 
they won’t sass you ; I’ve had lovely times with 
M’randy.” 

Mrs. Martin smiled and then looked grave. 
“ It must be lonesome here for the child,” she 
thought. “Jest like ’Zekel Martin to bring 
her here ’cause he thought he had a bargain; 
he’ll not work her to death as he has me ! ” 
Martha was right; Ezekiel knew he had se- 
cured a bargain and congratulated himself 
thereon. He watched Rhody at work and his 
satisfaction deepened. Whether she swept or 
dusted, washed dishes or fed the chickens, she 
did all with a deftness and energy remarkable 
in one so young. He regarded her as a valua- 
ble farm asset — a good machine. 

To Martha the child was all that and much 
more; she was a great comfort, and as time 

46 


R H O D Y 


went on she became a positive necessity. But 
the woman’s conscience troubled her; she knew 
she ought to write to Rhody’s mother. Fear 
of Ezekiel, however, restrained her. More- 
over, she knew if she gave him the letter he 
would never post it. To take it to town her- 
self was impossible; her strength was unequal 
to the long rough ride there and back. There 
was nothing to do but await developments; in 
the meantime, she would do her best by the lit- 
tle girl and teach her all she herself knew. 

“ How would you like to go to school, 
Rhody ? ” she asked, as they folded away their 
work. 

“Me — me go to school. Mis’ Martin!” 
exclaimed Rhody, her face instantly alight. 

“ I don’t know as I should tell you, so don’t 
let on to ’Zekel I said anything, but he says 
he’s goin’ to send you to district school; fact 
is, the school Inspector was here yesterday, him 
as ’Zekel was speaking to out by the fence, 
and he tol’ ’Zek he’d have to send you.” 

Rhody’s eyes danced with delight. “ Oh, 
Mis’ Martin,” she said, “ how I should ad- 
mire to go I ” 


47 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER IV 

The district school was about a mile from 
the Martin farm. In winter it was a long, 
hard tramp there and back, but in spring and 
summer every step of the way was a delight to 
Rhody. 

Once freed from the gloom of the farm, the 
old wild Rhody returned. She went dancing 
and skipping down the road to the covered 
bridge, mocking the birds in her clear, high 
voice, chasing the chipmunks and squirrels that 
darted across her path. At the bridge she lin- 
gered to watch, through one of the square 
openings, the river swirling by and to wonder 
if that rushing torrent went near her home. 
Then her path lay awhile along a bit of open 
country, turned abruptly into a wood, and over 
a stream, and on to the highway where the 
little whitewashed building stood. 

Nowhere was the fragrant arbutus to be 
found in greater abundance in the early spring, 
48 


R H O D Y 


than under the snow and sodden leaves of 
those piney woods; later, hepaticas and violets 
bordered the way, and in June the mountain 
laurel and wild azalea colored all the wood- 
land. Almost daily returning from school, 
she climbed to the top of a tall pine tree to 
look off and off, as in the dear, bygone days 
when she dreamed with Mirandy on the old 
windmill. 

Being full of purpose and desire, she made 
rapid progress In her studies and before the 
winter was over she could read and write. 

But long before she could write, she printed 
a little letter to her mother and persuaded Mar- 
tha to address it. With guileless frankness, she 
asked Ezekiel to post It when next he went to 
town; for, despite her distrust, she could not 
Imagine a man — even an Ezekiel Martin — 
cruel enough to destroy her message to her 
mother. Yet, when she gave It to him, he de- 
liberately opened It, read It, and set fire to It. 
Leisurely lighting his pipe from its flame, he 
watched It burn. 

Rhody, speechless with amazement, waited 
till the last bit of burnt paper fluttered away; 

49 


R H O D Y 


then she turned and fled to a secluded spot in 
the apple orchard where she flung herself upon 
the ground and sobbed as if her heart would 
break. 

“ Oh, Ma, how will I ever, ever, get home I ” 
she moaned. 

But there were compensations for Rhody. 
School was a never-ending joy to her, and ere 
long she became a power among her school- 
mates. Her tact and sweetness with the 
younger children were noticeable from the 
first, and Miss Smilie soon came to consult her 
young pupil often, particularly in matters of 
discipline. 

One day the spring freshets had cut off the 
highway from the valley road upon which Miss 
Smilie lived. The river, swollen beyond all 
bounds, had carried away the bridge and had 
turned the meadows along its banks into one 
large lake. Miss Smilie was obliged to make 
a long detour which brought her to the school- 
house almost two. hours late. 

Rhody was also somewhat behind time be- 
cause of an unusual amount of water in the 
brook over which she had to pass. 

50 


R H O D Y 


Entering the schoolroom she found the 
teacher absent and the children in an uproar. 

“ My land,” she cried, fine scorn expressed in 
her voice, “ ain’t you a nice passel of young 
’uns! Look at them paper wads all over the 
floor! Actin’ up ’cause teacher ain’t here to 
see I There you go now, Jake, see what you^ve 
done!” Jake indeed saw and was instantly 
contrite. He had bumped into Matthew Pom- 
eroy in a wild rush to escape a dipper-full of 
water that Ray Stevens was about to throw at 
him. Matthew, whose left leg was withered, 
had fallen and lay helpless on the floor. The 
children were sobered at once, and Jake, all 
repentance, helped Rhody raise the lame boy. 

“ Are you hurt. Mat? ” she asked. 

“No, only shook up: thankee kindly, Rho- 
dy,” he answered, a glow of pleasure 
spreading over his pale face, as she handed him 
his crutch and gently helped him to his seat. 

The tension being lessened, there was once 
more threatened disorder, but Rhody would 
have none of it. 

“ Let’s have a Spellin’ Bee till teacher 
comes,” she urged; “choose sides. Mat, you 

51 


R H O D Y 


choose one side, and Rebecca, you choose 
t’other.” 

For a time the excitement was intense. 
Rhody, book in hand, dealt out words, hard 
and easy; back and forth went the contestants, 
until Jacob Todd declared that if e-e-1 was eel, 
e-e-gle was eagle, and the victory went to Mat- 
thew’s side; then brain-weary the mischief- 
makers looked about for prey. 

Hardly had they become seated after the 
Spelling Bee when a wild shriek went up from 
Angelina Struthers — “You vile, mean, hate- 
ful boy,” she yelled, rushing from her desk. 

Some of the children tittered, others gazed 
in unfeigned horror at Angelina, for the ends 
of Angelina’s braids — braids of golden hair, 
of which she was unduly proud, — were black 
with ink that was rapidly soaking up and up. 

Rhody reached for Miss Smilie’s scissors 
and promptly clipped away the blackened hair. 

“ There, Angy,” she said, “ ’twon’t do no 
harm, it didn’t run so very far. What on 
earth p’sessed you. Tommy, to do such a mean, 
cowardly trick? ” she asked, turning toward the 
culprit. 


5 * 


R H O D Y 


Tommy Tubbs, aged five and not gifted with 
much gray matter, looked up at Rhody with a 
seraphic grin. 

“ Didn’t want her hair on my dethk.” 

Here Jake interposed. “ She’s alles a 
thro win’ that mane of her’n over on Tom’s 
desk.” 

“ A’ll do it ag’in, a wull, when it grows,” 
drawled unrepentant Tommy, and Angelina 
sobbed aloud. 

“ Oh, Tommy, Tommy, who brought you 
up ? ” asked Rhody, reprovingly. 

“ Pa brung me’s fur’s the hill on the wood 
sledge, and I come the rest o’ the way alone.” 

At this, the school broke into a gale of laugh- 
ter, in which even Angelina joined. 

“ Say, Rhody, tell us a story, do,” cried Mat- 
thew. 

“ Do, do, yes, Rhody, do,” came from all 
parts of the room. 

“ All right,” she answered good humoredly, 
“what one will I tell you?” 

“ Dan’el in lion’s den; ” “ Ameneve; ” “ Lit- 
tle Red Hen; ” cried first one, then another. 

“ Mat,” asked Rhody, looking at the lame 

S3 


R H O D Y 


boy who was trying to make himself heard, 
“ what story do you want? ” 

Mat was not given a chance to reply, for just 
then Tommy, at the door, shouted, “ Teacher’s 
comin,’ ” and story-telling was postponed. 

At recess Rhody lingered a moment with 
Miss Smille; then, taking her lunch basket, 
stepped outside. 

She spied Matthew sitting apart from the 
other children, his lunch untasted beside him. 

“ Did Jake hurt you. Mat? ” she asked. 

“Some,” he answered; “ ’taln’t nothin’, 
though.” 

“ What ails you? ” 

“ Oh, I dunno, after a fall or something like 
that, I always feel how helpless and useless I 
am. 

“ Oh, well, come now, cheer up,” said 
Rhody; “some day, who knows, a big man 
might come along from Springfield and fix you 
all right.” 

“ Like the man you told about who used to 
cure folks of lameness jest by speakin’ to ’em? 
Gosh! I wish there was a man like that now.” 

“ That was the Lord, you know,” answered 

54 


R H O D Y 


Rhody reverently; “they do say he’s a-coming 
again, but, like all folks as makes a name for 
’emselves, he’s a coming in Great Glory. Was 
that the story you wanted when Miss Smilie 
came in? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mat. 

“ I’ll tell it to you now while we eat our 
lunch; here, take a piece of this cold sausage — 
Mis’ Martin’s — it’s jest fine; and I’ll take your 
cold meat.” 

Under Rhody’s genial sway Matthew bright- 
ened. 

“ Fire away,” he said, resting his back 
against the tree under which they were sitting, 
and she began : 

“ Long, long ago in a land far from here, a 
man named Jesus, so beautiful as never was, 
was walking down a country road. His head 
was hanging ’cause he was thinking about what 
awful mean and wicked folks there was in his 
home town, Jerusalem. He was near weep- 
ing, and he was praying for ’em, when all to 
onct the most turrible leprous stood before him 
in the road and cried out to Jesus. Everybody 
else would of run for their lives, but Jesus he 
55 


R H O D Y 


just looked at the man and raised his hand and 
the man was well. Then the Lord came into 
the town, and folks of all kinds came a-clut- 
tering ’round him. Some as was sick just 
touched his clo’es and went away well, and lit- 
tle children dumb up in his arms and he blessed 
’em, and then they brought to him a man as had 
a withered leg, and Jesus, looking at him so 
sweet and tender that the man couldn’t but trust 
him, just told him he’d never go lame any more, 
and the man, believing him, thrun away his 
crutch, and went leaping and springing, and 
shouting as he lep’ — ‘ Glory to God in the 
Highest.’ ” 

“Gol! my I” said Mat, heaving a sigh, 
“ wasn’t that fine, though I How grand he 
must ’a’ felt.” 

“ Yes,” said Rhody. 

“ Is that all? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, my no ! there’s hours and hours more. 
One thing I like ’bout Scripter is there’s always 
a story fits some one or something. Now 
there’s the story ’bout Mary and Marthy:! 
couldn’t help thinking how that story fit your 
Aunt Vesty and Miss Temp’rance,” 

56 


R H O D Y 


“Let’s have it,” said Mat; “how do you 
mean it fits ’em? ” 

“ Why, Aunt Vesty’s so soft and quiet, and 
Miss Temp’rance is so fussy, like she was t’ 
other day when the parson called — you was 
telling how she fussed.” 

“ Go on,” urged Mat gleefully, “ Miss 
Smilie’ll be ringing the bell.” 

“ Well, one day after Jesus had had a par- 
tic’lar heavy day o’ healing, he was tired, and 
he d’cided to go and sit a spell with his two 
friends, Mary and Marthy, so he went over to 
their place for supper. Mary was setting with 
her work; I picter her to myself as awful sweet 
and gentle, with a smile always on her face ; not 
many words to say, but always words o’ kind- 
ness.” 

“ Like you,” suggested Mat. 

“ Oh, my land, no I much nicer’n me. — 
Well, when she seen her friend a-coming up 
the walk she was jest more’n pleased, so she 
took him into the house, where it was cooler, 
and the two of ’em set down, hoping to have a 
quiet talk. But Marthy she hadn’t looked fer 
comp’ny, and she was one of the Miss Temp- 
57 


R H O D Y 


Vance kind, always fretting and fuming, so aw- 
ful ’fraid of a speck o’ dust or ’fraid she hadn’t 
a meal o’ vittles fit for comp’ny, and the like o’ 
that. So when it was near supper time she 
come into the room where Jesus and Mary was, 
and rattled the dishes, and plunked down the 
cups and saucers, till they couldn’t hear them- 
selves think. ’Twan’t that Marthy didn’t 
make the Lord welcome — not at all — she 
was just over-anxious; and so, when Jesus had 
stood it ’bout as long as he calkerlated he need 
to, he just turned to her and sez, sez he, just a 
1-e-e-tle sharp, that is, as sharp as the dear 
Lord could be — he sez, ‘ Oh, Marthy, don’t 
fuss so, any simple supper’ll do for me.’ ” 

Thus passed the weeks and the months and 
finally the years. Before long Rhody had 
abandoned the hope of reaching her mother by 
letter. She was penniless, and in those days 
postage was costly. Ezekiel was the only per- 
son who went to town from tht farm, and she 
knew that he could not be trusted to post a 
letter to her mother. Besides, her memory 
of home was growing dim; new friends, new 
58 


R H O D Y 


interests, absorbed her. While she loathed 
Ezekiel, she had learned to love Martha, and 
she realized that the lone woman depended 
more and more upon her as her own strength 
gradually lessened. Were hands needed to 
lighten Martha’s tasks, Rhody’s were ever 
ready. Could feet save her one step, Rhody’s 
were swift to run. 

“ Oh, Rhody ! ” the poor woman moaned 
one day when peace-destroying pain racked 
her, “what on arth should I do ’thout you?” 

Rhody, tenderly bathing her fevered brow, 
replied, “ Don’t think about it; I’m here.” 

With the years Rhody grew and blossomed, 
for hers was a nature that nothing could arrest 
in its upward growth. Some natures are so: 
you may twist them, thwart them, hold them 
down, but, in spite of everything, they will 
elude you and remain true to the inward vision. 
Time also was working a physical as well as a 
spiritual change. The angularities that had 
marked her first growing became less pro- 
nounced. Her face, a fair oval, framed with 
masses of wavy chestnut hair, had filled out, 
and now glowed warm and brilliant with the 
59 


R H O D Y 


flush of youth and health. Her sweet ex- 
pressive mouth had lost its pathetic droop, and 
steadfastness of purpose had set its seal thereon. 
The real beauty of Rhody, however, lay in her 
eyes; those blue mysterious depths, — clear and 
limpid as mountain lakes — shadowed under 
dark lashes, changed with every thought; but, 
whether twinkling with merriment, or softened 
in sympathy, flashing with anger, or idly dream- 
ing, always there lurked in them a haunting sad- 
ness. 

Ezekiel, noting these changes, began to show 
her many little attentions, which did not escape 
Martha’s watchful eye, and once when he 
came from town he actually presented her with 
material for a new dress. “ She’s pretty as a 
picter,” he inwardly commented, “ and srnart 
as a whip. I’ll have to see to it, though, that 
she don’t git too smart.” 


6o 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER V 

School days finally came to an end, for 
there were limitations to the intellectual ca- 
pacity of both teacher and pupil. Rhody’s 
progress had not been great, but she read well ; 
she wrote a clear round hand; she could add, 
subtract and multiply; she made fewer gram- 
matical slips than she had made before she 
came under Miss Smilie’s influence, and she 
spoke with less dialect. 

If her book-learning was limited, her knowl- 
edge of domestic matters was almost prodi- 
gious. Mrs. Martin, herself renowned in the 
neighborhood as a housekeeper, had spared no 
pains in teaching her. 

“ Some day you’ll make a good man a fa- 
mous wife, Rhody,” she said; and to herself, 
“ Please God she’ll find one, they’re scurcer’n 
aigs in Jenuary.” 

About this time there was a change in the 
Martin household. Ezekiel’s nephew, Joe 

6x 


R H O D Y 


Meserve, came to live at the farm. His 
mother, Ezekiel’s sister, had died recently; his 
father had been in an asylum for the insane for 
many years, and the boy was alone and home- 
less. Ezekiel readily granted his sister’s dy- 
ing request, that he give her only child a home ; 
indeed, that astute Yankee saw more farm help 
for nothing. 

Joe was city bred and brought to the hilltop 
farm many of the airs and graces of the metrop- 
olis, but no enthusiasm whatever for manual 
labor. He arrived one morning from Albany 
immaculate from head to foot; dressed in a 
suit of shiny black cloth, a beautifully starched 
white collar, a red necktie, and highly polished 
boots. His black hair curled crisply about his 
small round head; soft ringlets fell over his low 
brow; his eyes were coal black, under heavy 
meeting eyebrows; his skin was fair, and his 
cheeks were delicately pink. He was small, 
lithe, nervous, and his manners — upon which 
he prided himself — were faultless. Under 
all circumstances, he was politeness itself. 
When he fed the pigs, he fed them politely; he 
was polite to the cows when he milked them; 

62 


R H O D Y 


he was polite to his Aunt, and most polite to 
Rhody. He was bright and full of fun. His 
stories of city life were entertaining, if not al- 
ways exact; indeed, he was considered, at least 
by the women of the family, a great acquisition. 
His aversion for work, rough farm work, and 
his methods of doing it, annoyed his uncle in- 
tensely and the constant friction between them 
was very disconcerting to the sensitive lad. 

“ When I’m twenty-one, believe me. I’ll get 
out of here; and that’ll be in less than a year — 
thanks be I ” he said to Rhody after an en- 
counter with Ezekiel. 

She sighed; she should miss Joe from the 
farm. He had shown her many little atten- 
tions which she appreciated. That he admired 
his Aunt’s pretty maid was evident from the 
first; there was in truth nothing he enjoyed so 
much as the hour they spent doing up the tea 
things, and there was nothing that enraged 
Ezekiel more than to see him so employed. 

“ Gurus,” he snarled, “ how willin’ you are 
to do the wimmin’s work and are lazier’n a 
settin’ hen ’bout your own.” 

Joe wisely held his peace; he never answered 

63 


R H O D Y 


back if he could avoid doing so, for quarreling, 
or sickness, or disorder of any sort, he told 
Rhody, often upset him for weeks at a time. 

Rhody’s gentle, cheerful ways appealed to 
him and made him feel — so he assured him- 
self — as if he were sitting under a shady tree, 
and to sit under a shady tree was Joe’s idea of 
happiness. 

But the look that sometimes cast a shadow 
over the girl’s face troubled and puzzled him; 
and one day, when he came across her picking 
berries in the raspberry patch, with that brood- 
ing sadness in her eyes, he made bold to ask 
what troubled her. His voice was low and his 
manner was kind, and Rhody, little used to such 
tenderness, burst into tears and poured forth 
her piteous tale, now vehemently protesting, 
again sadly bewailing, yet ever acknowledging 
her affection for Martha. 

“ I’m not meaning to complain, Joe,” she 
said, wiping her eyes; “most times I’m happy. 
I love Mis’ Martin, she’s been a mother to me, 
but some days the old longing for home gets 
the better of me. I really wouldn’t leave now 
if I could. Mis’ Martin’s too sick.” 

64 


R H O D Y 


“It’s a shame, a burning shame!” he ex- 
claimed. “ Who ever heard tell of such men ! 
You write your letter and I’ll post it next time 
I go to town. And now cheer up, little girl, it 
makes me awful unhappy to see you sad.” 

While Joe was speaking, Rhody stood with 
eyes downcast, the color going and coming over 
her face; but when he finished she raised her 
eyes and smiled, and as she smiled, she won- 
dered if she could ever again be sad. 

A week later, when Joe asked for her letter, 
she had to admit it was not written. 

Winter came and with it many tasks dis- 
tasteful to the debonair Joe. Corn-shelling, 
wood-chopping, ice-cutting, — he loathed them 
all: and though Ezekiel fiercely upbraided, he 
did as little as he could, much preferring the 
warmth and cheer of the kitchen where Rhody 
worked. 

Mrs. Martin grew worse as the cold weather 
came, and was confined to her bed most of the 
time. They moved her into the small room 
off the kitchen, where she had the benefit of the 
heat from the fire, and where Rhody could wait 
upon her more conveniently. 

65 


R H O D Y 


“ Rhody,” she said one day, “ you’re a born 
nuss; where in the land did you Tarn all your 
nice ways, fur es I kin sec ye ain’t had much of 
an up-bringin’ ? ” 

“ I dunno. Mis’ Martin, I just love doing for 
folks; I always did.” 

“I b’lieve ye,” said the sick woman; “you 
beat all ’t ever I saw. Rhody ” — after a mo- 
ment, and with a slight hesitation — “ air you 
as sot as ever on goin’ home? ” 

“ Some day I’m going home, but not till 
you’re real well. Mis’ Martin,” said the girl, 
leaning over and rearranging the pillows ; 
“ why do you ask? ” 

“ ’Cause, sence I been lyin’ here I’ve had 
time to study some, and I’ve been a-studyin’ 
you; and the shame of the way you’ve been 
treated has come to me more and more. 
Through I’arnin’ to love ye, I’ve Famed to 
understand what it meant for you to be taken 
like that away from your folks, and I ought t’ 
insisted on you bein’ sent back. I’m a selfish 
woman, I alles was.” 

The tears came into Rhody’s eyes; she knelt 
down by the sick woman and took her wan 
66 


R H O D Y 


hand in her own. “ Mis’ Martin, don’t think 
no more ’bout it. I love Ma, but Ma could 
never have found time to teach me what you 
have — to cook and sew — and — and ” — 
said the girl, choking with emotion — “ Ma 
never could have taught me patience like you; 
oh, Mis’ Martin, if only I can be good like 
you! ” 

Martha opened her eyes wide with astonish- 
ment. “Why, Rhody! child! I ain’t good: till 
you come, Rhody, I was most as hard as 
’Zekiel. Some’rs in the Bible it sez ‘ and a 
little child shall lead ’em.’ You’ve led me, 
Rhody, and so — and so — I’ve made up my 
mind if you’re still sot on goin’ hum. I’ll not 
bender ye.” 

She put a trembling hand under her pillow 
and drew from it a small bag. “ Thar child,” 
she said, placing it in Rhody’s hands, “ I’ve 
saved it from the butter and aigs, which is mine ; 
you’ve arned it, every cent, and it’ll take you 
hum; only don’t let ’Zekiel know.” 

“ Mis’ Martin, Mis’ Martin,” sobbed Rhody, 
completely overcome ; “ never ! never ! I’ll not 
leave you, don’t think it. I’ll stay here right 
67 


R H O D Y 


by you, I want to, Mis’ Martin; put back the 
money for something you need.” 

“ I’ll put it back now, but it’s yours when ye 
want it,” and the sick woman, weary with talk- 
ing, closed her eyes and presently slept, her 
hand in Rhody’s. 

That winter a new minister was installed in 
the little Methodist meeting-house. After 
house to house visitations, he found his scat- 
tered flock so apathetic that he decided to start 
a series of evening prayer meetings, which were 
to terminate in a grand Revival. He especially 
urged the “ young people to attend,” and the 
young people, always glad to attend anything 
that brought them together, flocked to the place 
of worship on Wednesday evenings. Rhody 
and Joe were among the most regular in attend- 
ance. 

Rhody went with the real and earnest hope 
of “ getting religion and Joe, for the pleas- 
ure of a two-mile walk with Rhody. 

One evening toward the end of March as 
they tramped through the snow on their way to 
the meeting-house, Joe reminded his companion 
68 


R H O D Y 


that this would be the last but one of the 
prayer meetings before the big Revival. 

“ And sorry enough I am, Joe,” she said. 
“ for neither of us has got r’ligion. It makes 
me ashamed when others are experiencing right 
along.” 

“ Oh, for that,” answered Joe, “ I’m not 
troubling much; the only thing I’m sorry for is 
that our pleasant walks will soon be over.” 

It was moonlight, the air was clear and 
crisp, not a sound disturbed the quiet of the 
solitude about them save the crunching of their 
feet upon the glistening snow. 

The girl looked into her companion’s face 
which was turned toward her, and there she 
read in his eyes something that sent the hot 
blood throbbing through her veins. They 
were nearing their destination, but as their eyes 
met he put his arm about her and drew her to 
him : “ Rhody ! ” he whispered, “ Rhody ! I 

love you,” and kissed her. 

Once in her seat, Rhody tried hard, with 
closed eyes, to pray. She tried to see herself 
an abject sinner: too vile, too worthless to go 
before the Almighty — the minister said all 
69 


R H O D Y 


who were called must feel that way — but she 
saw only stars and rainbows and a Rhody 
whose very soul was wrapped in radiant light. 
Joyous, not miserable; worthy, not worthless; 
for Joe — beautiful, fascinating Joe — had 
kissed her. “ Oh, Lord ! ” she murmured, “ if 
to get r’ligion I must be miserable I’ll never, 
never get it; he loves me, me, Rhody Mark- 
ham!” 

She heard, as in a dream, the minister’s im- 
passioned prayers ; through the hymns she stood 
like one in a trance; and during the sermon, 
which was calculated to strike terror and woe 
into the heart of the bravest, she sat quite un- 
moved with a look of rapture on her face. 
Presently, however, she became aware of a 
voice; some one was standing on the steps of 
the platform, clapping his hands and waving 
his arms. It was Deacon Willard calling in 
high-pitched nasal tones: “Come! oh, come! 
who’s ready for Glory? Who’s ready for 
Glory? Come, brothers! come, sisters! 
come ! ” 

He paused a moment. A stir and hum went 
through the meeting-house. The curious 

70 


R H O D Y 


craned their necks to see who had suddenly 
stepped into the aisle. 

It was Rhody. Her face was pale, her lips 
were parted, her blue eyes, filled with an 
ecstatic light, were fixed upon the face of Dea- 
con Willard. 

“ I am ready,” she called in a clear, sweet 
voice. Vm in Glory now!** She paused 
for just a moment, then turning, fled from the 
meeting. 

A hush fell upon the people. “ Brothers,” 
said Deacon Willard with great solemnity, 
“ our sister is a convert as has seen a holy 
vision.” 

“ Rhody,” said Joe, overtaking her and put- 
ting his arm about her as she was entering the 
gate to Martin’s farm, “ you must never do 
anything like that again. You gave me an 
awful turn; you looked so uplifted I was afraid 
you were going to be translated and,” kissing 
her, “ lost to me.” 

She looked at him with the same absorbed 
and radiant expression she had worn in meet- 
ing. “ I can’t never be lost to you, Joe, 
71 


R H O D Y 


never!” she said, gently disengaging herself 
from his embrace. 

From that time, Joe carried on as ardent a 
courtship as the circumstances would allow. 
Ezekiel kept both of the young people at hard 
labor, but now and then they found a few min- 
utes when they could be alone; stolen sweets 
that filled Rhody’s love-hungry soul with in- 
effable peace. 

The warm spring days which followed an un- 
usually cold winter brought neither strength nor 
relief to Martha. It was clear to every one 
that her days were numbered. 

One evening when Rhody was sitting beside 
her, she turned to the girl and said, “ Rhody, 
I’m dying: I know it, and I’m glad to go; little 
Jean and Mother are there; only one thing 
troubles me — it’s you, child. Promise me, 
promise as you love me, to get away from here 
’s soon’s I’m gone. I can’t spare ye yet; but, 
Rhody, take the money — it’s here — and go. 
Joe’ll help ye.” 

That night she passed to the Great Beyond. 

The next morning befone breakfast Rhody 
went in search of Joe. She found him, a 


R H O D Y 


crumpled heap, in a corner of the woodshed: 
all color gone from his face, a look of terror in 
his black eyes, his dark hair disheveled and 
his general demeanor that of one nearly dis- 
tracted. 

“ Joe ! cried Rhody, hastening to him, 
“ what’s the matter? ” 

“ Death I ” he answered in a hoarse whisper; 
“ it’s awful, I can’t stand it, it’s driving me 
crazy, the thought of it.” 

“ Come, come,” she said soothingly, putting 
her arms about him and drawing his head to 
her shoulder, “ that’s not right. See, dear. 
Mis’ Martin was glad to go, and now she’s at 
rest. I picter her with little Jean in her arms 
this minute, and her mother ’longside of her; 
and p’raps, p’raps, the dear Lord is making her 
welcome to one of the many mansions in His 
Father’s house like He told about when He was 
here.” 

Joe moved uneasily. “ It wasn’t that I was 
thinking of, Rhody: Aunt’s better off, I dare- 
say; but I’m wondering how I can bear to go 
into the house and stand the funeral. When 
Ma died I lit out and was gone three whole 
73 


R H O D Y 


days; I can’t bear to be by at such times. I’m 
planning now to see how I can get away.” 

“ And leave me here alone with ’Zekiel, 
Joe!” 

“ Oh,” he answered, “ I never thought of 
that.” 

Rhody moved away from him; she was hurt; 
but when she looked at him closely, she realized 
he was hardly responsible for what he said or 
did. 

‘‘ Joe,” she said, “ only yesterday Mis’ Mar- 
tin made me promise to get away from here 
soon’s ever I could after she died, and she said 
you’d help me.” 

An entire change of expression came over 
Joe’s face. “ Why, Rhody, so I will; we’ll run 
away together; now, come, and we’ll be married 
soon’s ever we can get to town,” he cried im- 
pulsively. 

He caught her in his arms and kissed her 
passionately. 

“ No, no, Joe,” she answered, struggling to 
free herself, “we can’t be married: why, Joe, 
we’re paupers, you and me. Take me home 
first, then you can find work and I can too, in 

74 


R H O D Y 


the mills; then, when we have some money, 
then, dear, we’ll be married.” 

He saw the wisdom of what she said and re- 
luctantly consented to abide by her superior 
judgment. 

He followed her into the house and helped 
her with the work. Ezekiel had gone to town 
to arrange for the funeral, so they had the fore- 
noon to themselves. 

Now that an adventure was in sight, Joe’s 
spirits rose. To him, adventure or pleasurable 
excitement of any kind were what wine is to the 
drinker. After considering various ways of 
escape, they finally agreed to wait at the farm 
until after the funeral, then under cover of 
darkness they would steal away while Ezekiel 
slept: to elude him in the daytime would be 
impossible. 

They laid their plans carefully, and Rhody 
was delighted to see how much wisdom and 
forethought Joe showed, for it must be ad- 
mitted that his behavior in the woodshed had 
for the moment shaken her faith in him, but 
now he was all that her heart could wish. 

She said nothing about the money, for she 
75 


R H O D Y 


did not intend to take it; and it was as well she 
had so decided, for when she went into 
Martha’s room and felt under the pillow for 
the little bag, intending to hand it to Ezekiel 
before strangers went into the room, it was 
gone. Ezekiel had been there first. 

The evening after the funeral Rhody under- 
stood Martha’s reasons for urging her to leave 
the farm. 

At supper Ezekiel appeared in the best of 
spirits. He tried to joke with his nephew, and 
paid such marked attention to his “ young 
housekeeper,” that the girl became bewildered 
and disgusted and wondered what deviltry he 
was devising. 

When the uncomfortable meal came to an 
end, Joe left the kitchen ostensibly to attend to 
his “ chores,” but in reality to escape from a 
situation which embarrassed him, not stopping 
to consider what it must be to Rhody, or that 
possibly she might need his protection. She, 
meanwhile, busied herself with the tea things. 
To her amazement, instead of going, as was his 
custom after supper, for a last look about the 
barns and poultry-houses, Ezekiel joined her, 
76 


R H O D Y 


towel in hand, and began to wipe the dishes as 
she washed them. 

“ For a fac’, Rhody,” he said, glancing at 
her with a sidelong leer, “ as I was a-sayin’ to 
Joe when he went out, you air a beauty and no 
mistake.” 

Rhody bit her lip but made no reply. “ He’s 
worse when he’s nice than he is when he’s 
mean,” she thought. 

“ I ain’t had time to notice you much before, 
with pore Marthy so sick.” 

The girl longed to spring at his throat and 
choke him, but she said nothing and he con- 
tinued, “ You’re a woman now, most nineteen, 
ain’t ye? How’d ye like me to take ye to 
Bosting and get you some nice clo’s? Good 
clo’s ’d suit you.” He sidled up to her and was 
about to put his arm about her waist, when she 
sprang back from him, maddened Into fury. 

“ ’Zekel Martin, how dare you?” she de- 
manded, “you — you coward I” Then, as he 
attempted to approach her, a smile distorting 
his wicked face, she seized a paring knife from 
the table. “ Come near me, and I’ll drive this 
knife into you! ” she cried. 

77 


R H O D Y 


“ R-h-o-d-y, R-h-o-d-y,” stammered Ezekiel, 
“ what you takin’ on so fer, hain’t I been a 
father to you for years? ” 

“No father — a jailer, you! ” 

“ Now, Rhody, don’t be onery, we may’s well 
be fren’s; there’s only you and me left.” 

“ I’ll never be friends with you, ’Zekel Mar- 
tin, and don’t you think it,” she answered fear- 
lessly. 

“Ye won’t, hey?” and the ugly expression 
she knew so well replaced the hideous smile. 
“ See if ye won’t,” and he stepped toward her 
threateningly. 

“ Keep your distance ! ” Then, fixing her 
wonderful far-seeing eyes upon him, she pointed 
to the door behind him and slowly advanced, 
while he as steadily retreated. 

In their excitement neither of them noticed 
the direction of his retreat, but at the entrance 
to the small chamber off the kitchen Ezekiel 
rallied. “ You’ll pay for this,” he hissed, 
“ I’ll—” 

At that Instant Joe came into the kitchen. 
He heard what his uncle was saying and saw 
him shrink before Rhody’s undaunted gaze as 
78 


R H O D Y 


she faced him, the glittering knife in her up- 
lifted hand. 

For the first time in his life Joe forgot him- 
self: he leaped like a panther upon the man in 
the doorway and, seizing him by the collar, 
hurled him into the room beyond and quickly 
fastened the door with a hasp. 

Then, holding out his hand to Rhody, 
he whispered, “ come, quick.” 

Hand in hand they ran from the house : away 
from Martin’s farm, forever. 


79 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER VI 

Weary and foot-sore, Rhody and Joe 
reached the old Markham homestead at dusk 
the following evening. 

As Rhody paused at the open door and 
looked into the kitchen, her heart sank — 
where was the rollicking, happy-go-lucky family 
of girls and boys she had expected to see 
gathered about the table? Where were her 
chubby Josiah and little red-haired Lucy? 
Only four at the table ! Where were the 
others? Surely that big boy was not Josiah! 
and could it be possible that the tall girl be- 
side him was Lucy? Seven years had made 
changes of which, strangely enough, she had 
taken no account. 

Sarah looked up, as Rhody stepped into the 
room, and gave a low cry — “ Rhody ! ” 

“Ma, oh, Mai” 

For some time no one spoke as the mother 
and daughter sobbed in each other’s arms ; then 

8o 


R H O D Y 


Josiah and Lu'cy, bashfully, drew near and 
Lucy’s arms stole about Rhody, while Josiah 
grasped her hand. Abiram was the first to 
break the silence. 

“ Rhody, Rhody, ain’t ye no words fer yer 
Pa? Ain’t ye glad to see me, tew? ” 

The girl drew herself slowly from her 
mother’s close embrace and turned to her 
father. 

“ No, Pa,” she answered quietly, “ I ain’t no 
cause to be glad to see you, and if you were all 
that was left of home Pd never have come back. 
I ain’t going to say all I feel, but Pll tell you 
this — I don’t believe that in all the world there 
ever was a crueler, meaner trick played on a 
child than what you and ’Zekel Martin played 
on me. You give me to a man as you had 
never seen; he was bad; he was mean; he ill- 
treated his wife, till at last he killed her with 
his meanness; but she was good to me and did 
the best she could for me, and I stayed by her 
till we buried her. Then, thanks to the help of 
Joe Meserve, I got away — none too soon. 
Joe,” she called, “come in, won’t you? Ma,” 
she continued, leading him to her mother, “ this 

8i 


R H O D Y 


is Joe Meserve, Mr. Martin’s nephew; he has 
always been good to me, Ma.” 

Sarah was deeply affected, and again the tears 
began to flow. 

“How kin I thank ye, Joe?” she asked; 
“ what kin I do to show ye how grateful lam?” 

Joe bowed ceremoniously. “ Give me 
Rhody, Mrs. Markham, that’s all I ask — 
Rhody.” 

This was unexpected, to say the least, and 
Sarah glanced at the girl who stood gazing in 
unfeigned admiration at the young man, who, 
cap in hand, deferentially awaited the mother’s 
reply. 

“ Wal, I’ll tell ye,” she answered, “ you’ll 
have to git up and show what you’re good fer, 
’fore I’ll give her to ye; no gal of mine marries 
any man ’thout he proves himself a good per- 
vider: I’ve seen ’nough of shif’lessness fer one 
lifetime.” 

Joe acted upon the suggestion of his prospec- 
tive mother-in-law with unusual expedition: he 
intended to prove himself a good provider. 

He found a position in Rodney as clerk in 
82 


R H O D Y 


Brockett’s dry goods, grocery and what-not 
store, where his polished manners soon won for 
him distinction as “ the best seller Rodney had 
seen in many a day.” 

Regularly every Sunday he went a-courting, 
and Sarah had to admit that one seldom met a 
“ better-mannered ” young man, “ where most 
on ’em is more like wild injuns nor human crit- 
ters. And as for Rhody, when she’s with Joe, 
it’s jest Kingdom Come.” 

“Joe has ellergant manners,” assented 
Clara May, to whom Sarah had been speaking, 
“ but I mistrust there’s a screw loose som’ers. 
He’s too slick for me.” 

During the winter following her home- 
coming, Rhody helped her mother to pick up 
the loose ends and to straighten out the dis- 
orderly home, so that before spring it had as- 
sumed a tidiness theretofore unknown; and 
Sarah was duly impressed with her young 
daughter’s attainments. 

“ Who’d ever ’a’ thought you’d grow up 
knowin’ how to do things as you do, Rhody,” 
she said; “you never was much of a hand at 
sewin’ and housework ’fore you went away.” 

83 


R H O D Y 


“ It was Mis’ Martin, Ma. She spared no 
pains to teach me all she knew, and she was a 
great hand to do things mighty well, I can tell 
you.” 

“ Wal, when Joe gits you, and I mistrust no 
one else will, he’ll git a worker and no mistake, 
you’ll make a good wife; remember, though, ef 
ye want to hold on to him you’ll hev to feed 
him; men, like chickens, must be fed good and 
reg’lar.” 

As the mother and daughter sat together with 
their sewing, the family history for the past 
seven years was told and retold and Rhody’s 
life at the lonely farm was rehearsed again and 
again. Only once did they refer to the trans- 
action between Abiram and Ezekiel; after 
which both agreed that it was a subject too pain- 
ful to discuss, and they put it from them for- 
ever. 

It was hard for Rhody to adjust herself to 
the many changes time had wrought. “ The 
War,” which had come and gone, had made 
little impression upon the life at Martin’s farm, 
but here it had been otherwise. Of the family 
of nine, three sons had gone to battle — one 
84 


R H O D Y 


only had come back. Clara May was married, 
and lived a mile up the turnpike; Eugenia was 
at service in Springfield; Jeremiah and George 
were “out West”; Lucy and Josiah were the 
only children at home. 

“ Seems strange, Ma, don’t it,” she said one 
day, “ that in all those seven years I was away 
I never once thought ’bout the children grow- 
ing up? I just thought Josiah would be the 
same fat baby-boy, and Lucy all freckles and 
red hair, and every one, for a fact, as I left 
them.” 

“ Yes,” replied Sarah, “ I guess you thought 
about us here what we think of our dead — 
we’ll see ’em as they left us.” 

“ Yes, that’s so; for you were all dead to me, 
but I’m seeing you again, only grown older and 
— and really nicer, Ma.” 

“ Most like Heaven will be so, too,” replied 
the mother, gently. “ We’ll see ’em again and 
they’ll be nicer.” 

Joe’s skill as a salesman gained him not only 
renown, but by spring an advance in salary 
which encouraged him to ask once more for 
85 


R H O D Y 


Rhody’s hand. This time it was not denied 
him. 

“ Take her,” said Sarah with much solemnity, 
“ but look out you don’t never misuse her.” 

Rodney was a sequestered little village and 
the mills on the west bank of the river explained 
its existence. 

Three families, the Churches, the Town- 
sends, and the Curtises — owned the mills. A 
conservative folk were these paper makers, as 
was natural for those who had inherited from 
father to son, for several generations, a well- 
established and profitable business. In Rodney 
proper they lived; they worked in Rodney Mills. 
The sons returning from college to follow the 
business of their fathers had sometimes brought 
back wives from the cities, and sometimes they 
had married into one of the other families. 
Thus a cultivated and aristocratic community 
had developed; the men were educated and 
well-bred ; the women, kindly and refined. 

The one main street of Rodney extended a 
mile due east from the covered bridge at the 
river to the Congregational Meeting-House and 
Village Green. It was flanked on either side 
86 


R H O D Y 


by rows of majestic elms back of which stood 
stately Colonial homes. Brockett’s store, the 
post-office, and the quaint Red Lion Inn com- 
posed the business center. A few families, be- 
longing to the humbler walks of life, lived on 
the winding lanes and shady byroads leading 
from the main street. 

Here, then, on a May evening, Joe took his 
bride to a three-room cottage on Willow Lane, 
conveniently near the town pump and Brockett’s 
Grocery. 

The tiny front yard was aglow with early 
flowering plants and shrubs; the small garden 
in the rear, neatly laid out, gave promise already 
of good things to come, and drew from Rhody 
an exclamation of genuine surprise. 

“Why, Joel” she cried, “what would 
’Zekel call you now, if he was to see your gar- 
dens, him as called you ‘ lazy as a setting hen’ ? ” 

“ Cock o’ the walk, I guess,” answered Joe 
with a grin. 

“ Oh ! Is this why you wouldn’t let me come 
down and fix up ? ” she asked ecstatically, point- 
ing to the gaily clambering roses of the paper 
on the kitchen walls. 


87 


R H O D Y 


“ Yes,” he answered, “ I wanted to surprise 
you. rd rather surprise folks than eat.” 

The summer passed happily without special 
incident. Rhody had a gift for doing things 
well, as we know, and a touch that could 
change the commonplace into poetry. She was 
an excellent cook and took endless pains in pre- 
paring the dishes Joe liked best. She kept his 
clothes mended and brushed so that he might 
always go forth to the weighing of coffee and 
the measuring of cloth, spick and span from top 
to toe. 

As time went on she had to confess, to her- 
self alone be it understood, that her husband’s 
tastes were rather extravagant, considering 
their limited income. He liked to be well 
dressed; he must be shaved at the Red Lion — 
in short, he inclined towards what Rhody 
called “city luxuries”; so she was obliged to 
plan and manage with the utmost economy. 
“ But who’d mind doing that for the man you 
love ? — not I ’tanyrate ; I glory in it.” She 
went about her work with a beaming face, al- 
ways welcoming “ the man she loved,” with 
radiant smiles. 


88 


R H O D Y 


She found him forgetful as well as extrava- 
gant; and many a time after the weary grocer’s 
clerk had retired for the night, the faithful little 
wife chopped the next day’s kindling and hauled 
the water from the village pump. This was 
always done under cover of the darkness, so 
fearful was she lest the neighbors should see 
her and whisper among themselves that Mrs. 
Meserve had to chop the wood and haul the 
water. 

“ I can forgive him being careless, he’s so 
kind and loving; ain’t none of us but what has 
a hitch somewhere’s,” she reasoned. 

Seven months had come and gone and au- 
tumn had brought them to the threshold of 
winter, before they realized it. Then came 
days when Rhody was sorely perplexed and 
troubled, for, from time to time, Joe was dom- 
inated by a discontent that seemed almost to 
threaten his reason. He chafed under the 
confinement of the store; he insisted that the 
Grocery and Dry Goods business was a killing 
thing; he longed, he said, for the bigger life of 
a city — like Albany, for instance. 

Rhody tried to soothe him. 

89 


R H O D Y 


“ You’re just tired, dear,” she said and 
redoubled her efforts to minister to his com- 
fort. 

“You’ll feel better when summer comes; 
you fretted, you remember, at Martin’s last 
winter.” 

“ No, no, it’s not the winter,” he argued. 
“ It’s the narrowness of such work — ‘half a 
pound o’ sugar, Mr. Meserve; quarter yard 
o’ caliker ; a pint o’ vinegar ’ — that’s the way it 
goes all day and every day, Rhody.” 

“ Yes,” she assented, “ it must be tiresome. 
Do you know any one in Albany as could give 
you a job ? ” 

“ No, and it’s not store work I want. I 
want to see the world and people. I’ve lived 
cooped up all my life.” 

“ Joe I ” and a great fear seized the young 
wife, “you’re not tired of home, Joe?” 

“ No, no, Rhody, you and home are all 
that keep me steady — I didn’t mean to hurt 
you ; why, Rhody, you’re just the whole 
world to me. Pshaw,” he exclaimed, seeing 
tears in her eyes, “ I’m a discontented cuss; 
don’t mind me. I’m all right and you’ve hit it 

90 


R H O D Y 


— it is the cold gets into me and riles me.” 
He laughed and pinched her cheek. 

After this there seemed to be the old con- 
tent, until one evening several weeks later. 
Rhody was sitting by the kitchen table sewing 
on a little garment which she was anxious to 
finish; Joe sat awhile beside her, interested ap- 
parently in her handiwork. Suddenly he pushed 
back his chair and began to pace up and down 
the small kitchen gloomily scowling After a 
time he again came over to her side and began 
examining the little dress upon which her fingers 
were doing, as it seemed to him, such marvelous 
things, but in an instant he was up and walking 
the floor, muttering and gesticulating. 

“Joe, dear, what is it?” asked Rhody, go- 
ing to him and linking her arm in his. 

“ Poverty, and sickness, and storekeeping, 
Rhody, — I can’t stand them.” 

She said nothing, but laid her cheek caress- 
ingly against his arm. He bent over and 
kissed her, and she returned to her work with 
a sigh. For some time he continued to pace 
the floor and Rhody watched him anxiously; 
but she decided not to discuss matters with him 
91 


R H O D Y 


just then. Finally he stopped in the center of 
the room, stretched himself like one waking 
from a long sleep and, as if nothing of a dis- 
turbing nature had happened, announced that 
he guessed he would get a shave. 

“Want anything?” he asked as he reached 
the door. 

Rhody looked up surprised at the sudden 
transition. 

“ The wood’s not chopped for Sunday,” she 
said slowly. 

“ I’ll cut that to-morrow.” 

“ ’Tain’t nice to cut wood on Lord’s day, 
Joe.” 

“ I’m dressed now to get shaved. I mean 
do you want I should bring you anything from 
the store? ” 

“Yes,” she answered, “come to think of it, 
my scrubbing brush is done out, and — oh, say, 
Joe,” as he was about to go, “ might as well 
bring me six bars of soap. I’ll need some for 
the washing Monday.” 

“ All right, you shall have ’em, sweetheart,” 
he replied cheerily. 

She followed him to the door and stood there 

93 


R H O D Y 


until he was lost to sight in the darkness, then 
she returned to her sewing. 

“ He’s all right again,” she thought, “ he’s 
whistling ‘ Annie Laurie.’ ” 

As her needle flew in and out her thoughts 
turned to the future. “ Wait,” she whispered, 
a sweet smile playing about the corners of her 
mouth; “ wait, Joe will be so happy.” 

She glanced about her little home ; how warm 
and pleasant it was I She held the little gar- 
ment up for inspection; the tiny thing, though 
simple, was a marvel of daintiness; she tilted 
her head to one side and laughed aloud. 
“ What a size ! — if it’s a boy, it’ll be Johnnie, 
and if it’s a girl — Joe shall name it — but boy 
or girl, oh, how we will love you, my little baby, 
for you will be Joe’s and mine.” She pressed 
her face into the folds of the soft thing and 
kissed it passionately — “ Ain’t I the silly 
goose I ” She threw back her head and again 
laughed a joyous, girlish laugh, and laid her 
work away. 

After chopping the kindling for the morrow, 
she took down an overcoat of Joe’s from its 
peg on the woodshed wall and put it on; she 
93 


R H O D Y 


next assured herself that her neighbors were 
asleep. Yes, all lights were out; so she slipped 
over to the town pump and filled her buckets. 

These duties finished, she turned the lamp 
low and went to bed. 

She slept long and soundly, but wakened with 
a start as the town clock struck two. She put 
out her hand and, surprised to find Joe not be- 
side her, spoke, but received no reply. “ Joe,” 
she called, getting up and running into the 
kitchen, “ Joe I ” 

Everything there was as she had left it. 

“Joe! Joe!” 

She ran to the door, flung it open, and 
peered into the night. The sky was studded 
with coldly glittering stars; the great trees 
slapped their frozen limbs together; but no 
footfall, no voice, broke the silence while she 
listened. 

Presently, numbed with the icy wind, she 
stepped inside, reeling against the door as it 
swung to, her head thrown back, her arms 
loosely hanging at her side. 

'‘Joe, have I lost you! have I lost you, 
Joe? ” she moaned. 


94 


R H O D Y 


A passion of terror swept over her. Once 
more she flung wide the door, and stepped out. 
As before, all was still and the cold forced her 
back. Staggering across the room, she sank 
into a chair by the table and buried her face 
in her hands. 

Thus she sat; nor moved nor made a sound 
until the sunlight, streaming through the east- 
ern window of the little room, reminded her 
that a new day had come and that she must 
rouse herself to face its demands. 

“ I mustn’t sit this way, who knows what 
has happened,” she said aloud. 

She dressed quickly and went to Sam Good- 
rich’s, next door. Sam worked at Brockett’s 
— perhaps he could throw some light upon 
Joe’s behavior. But Sam had not seen him 
since they left the store together. 

The news of Joe’s disappearance spread 
like wild fire; before ten o’clock the men of 
the village were dragging the river, searching 
the woods, and scouring the highways and by- 
ways, while the women thronged to the little 
home where Rhody sat, waiting. 

95 


R H O D Y 


No two persons had the same opinion in re- 
gard to the strange disappearance. 

“ ’S my belief,” announced Mrs. Pratt, the 
blacksmith’s wife, with more directness than 
tact, “ he’s made way with himself.” 

“Why should he?” asked Rhody, entering 
into the conversation for the first time. 
“ Why, Mis’ Pratt, he never has ! Ain’t no 
sense in it — Joe ain’t that kind.” 

“ That’s as it may be,” answered Mrs. 
Pratt, sententiously, “ but you never kin tell 
what a man o’ his cut’ll do.” 

“ No, no, I don’t believe no such a thing, 
— Rhody here is right; but what I believe is 
he’s been made ’way with” This, from the 
widow Tracy, created something of a sensa- 
tion. Murmurs of assent and negation flut- 
tered through the room. 

“What for?” asked Rhody, again rejecting 
the idea that death by violence had been Joe’s 
fate. 

But excitements were rare in Rodney; and so 
when a real one did occur, it seemed hard that 
it should be allowed to resolve itself into a 
merely commonplace affair. 

96 


R H O D Y 


“ Mebbe the gypsies has took him; they was 
through here Thursday, and Mr. Meserve al- 
ways seemed to me to favor the gypsies, so 
black and white and pink as he is,” ventured 
Miss Smithies. 

“ He’d make a slick fortin teller,” suggested 
Mrs. Gibbs. “ Say, did y’ ever see a man as 
could sell off all the ugly kallerker in a store 
like Mr. Meserve; and then make ye believe, 
till you got hum and took holt o’ your com- 
mon senses, that you’d bought a piece as was 
jest printed fer that quilt ye wanted for yer 
best room? ” 

So they speculated among themselves while 
the men dragged the river and still Rhody 
waited. 

Later in the day, Sarah Markham escorted 
by Doctor Upham, — that man of tact and 
godly strength, — arrived unexpectedly, where- 
upon the neighbors were kindly, but firmly, in- 
formed that they were no longer needed, and 
Rhody, almost in a state of collapse, was put 
to bed. 

She was ill for several days : the exposure to 
the night air, and the terrible shock of finding 
97 


R H O D Y 


herself deserted were more than her frail 
strength could bear. 

That Joe had deliberately left her was her 
conviction; that in time he would return, she 
knew. She would accept none of the morbid 
theories thrust upon her by the gossips of the 
village; the reasons for her views she kept to 
herself. 

When her mother urged her to return to the 
farm, her reply was that she could not. 
“ Joe’ll be home again and I must keep things 
ready for him.” 

“ But, Rhody,” pleaded Sarah, “ where’s 
the money cornin’ from?” 

“ I have some,** she answered, “ and I’ll 
work.” 


9 * 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER VII 

Doctor Upham sat in his office whittling a 
crotched stick, which under his skillful manip- 
ulation was rapidly assuming the form of a 
crutch. He was surrounded by a veritable 
litter of books and bottles, papers and pam- 
phlets and carpenter’s tools, all indiscriminately 
jumbled together on chairs and tables. But 
the doctor remained serene amid disorder and 
whistled contentedly as he trimmed and shaped 
the hickory sapling. 

At the sound of a tap on the office door he 
raised his eyes from his work. 

“ Come in,” he called. ‘‘ Ah ! Rhody, it’s 
you is it? Take a seat, my girl, you look 
tired.” 

Rhody standing near the door looked about 
her for a chair. 

“Ohl Ah! wait a minute,” cried the 
doctor. “Tobias move on,” this to a large 
Angora cat, comfortably ensconced on the only 
99 


R H O D Y 


chair not piled high with pamphlets and papers. 
Tobias would not waken, so the doctor gently 
removed the sleeping creature to the rug be- 
fore the fire. 

“ There, now ! Sit down — that cat never 
seems to think I may have a caller.” 

He resumed his whittling and began to talk 
in the familiar, easy fashion that made him 
beloved of young and old. 

Since Joe’s disappearance he had taken a 
fatherly interest in Rhody and her affairs. He 
admired the plucky manner in which she had 
faced her trouble. 

“Well, and how are things in Willow 
Lane? ” he asked. 

“ Same as ever, doctor, only the money’s 
getting low and I must get to work.” 

“ Well, work won’t hurt you as long as you 
don’t do anything too heavy; what do you want 
to do?” 

“ Oh, ’most anything — I’m good at sew- 
ing.” 

“Just the thing; the very thing; I brought 
a whole bolt of linen from Springfield weeks 
ago, for shirts, I need ’em worse than a tramp, 

lOO 


R H O D Y 


and that child of mine hasn’t got at them yet 

— Maria I oh, Maria ! ” 

Maria, his “ child,” a maiden of perhaps 
forty years, came to the door obedient to his 
call. “ Yes, father,” she answered pleasantly 

— then seeing Rhody, she crossed the room 
with outstretched hand and greeted her cor- 
dially. 

“ Maria,” broke in the doctor, “ Rhody here 
wants some work — says she can sew — now’s 
your chance for shifting those shirts I’ve been 
pestering you to make on to her.” 

Miss Maria immediately bridled, “ Father, 
dear, have you forgotten? No one ever made 
your shirts but your honored wife, my mother, 
and since her death, I, myself. Much as I 
desire to assist Rhody, I can never permit any 
one else to make your shirts while I have 
strength and eyes.” 

“ Now, Miss Maria, don’t think’ about it 
again,” said Rhody. “ I know just exactly how 
you feel.” 

I have a pieced quilt I should like to have 
quilted for the spare bedroom; could you do 
that, Rhody?” 

lOX 


R H O D Y 


“ Yes’m.” 

“ The one that belonged on the bed suddenly 
disappeared one day last week and no one 
seems to know where it disappeared to.” 
Marla Upham looked steadily at her father 
while making this statement. 

The old gentleman drew down the corners of 
his mouth and whistled softly as he applied him- 
self once more to his whittling. “ It is very 
curious, I will admit, how things disappear from 
this house, quilts, blankets, jellies, desserts, 
eggs — all just spirited away, eh, Maria ? ” 

“ Yes,” she replied, “ and if you should turn 
detective, you would soon catch the thief.” 

The doctor laughed. “ Oh, Maria, Maria, 
you are too sharp for me.” 

Miss Maria went in search of the work and 
the doctor continued to whittle and talk. 
Presently he held the crutch up for inspection. 
“Not so bad! ” he said, eyeing It critically. 

“ Who’s It for, doctor? ” 

“ Little Almira Caffry. She broke her leg, 
and the family can’t afford to buy her a crutch 
and the father’s too lazy to make one.” 

“ But you find time.” 

lOZ 


R H O D Y 


“ Oh, yes,” he answered, “ I have to keep 
busy — might get into mischief otherwise.” 

“You keep busy! Why, IVe heard tell as 
how Miss Maria said as she didn’t b’lieve 
she’d know you if she was to meet you in the 
street, she sees so little of you.” 

The doctor chuckled. “ Maria exagger- 
ates. Fact is, though, I am pretty busy for 
an old codger.” 

“ Do you know who you ’mind me of, 
doctor? ” 

“No, who? My father used to say the 
Lord cut me out and then tore up the pat- 
tern.” 

“ You make me think of Christ.” 

“ God bless my soul, no ! never say it again, 
child. Bless my stars, no 1 ” 

“ The good physician,” insisted Rhody, 
“ always going about doing good.” 

“ Lord,” answered the doctor, truly discon- 
certed, “ don’t let Maria hear you, Rhody.” 

“ Miss Maria don’t need to hear it from me, 
— she knows it already.” 

At this moment Miss Maria returned with 
the quilt, and Rhody rose to leave. 

103 


R H O D Y 


“ Have you spoken to Mrs. Church about 
wanting work, Rhody?” asked Maria. 
“ Miss Rita is to be married in a few months 
and it was only yesterday that Mrs. Church 
said to me she wished she knew some one who 
could do some sewing for her.” 

“ No, ma’am. I’ve not spoken to any one but 
you and the doctor.” 

“ Why don’t you go over and see Caroline 
Church the first thing in the morning, Maria, 
and tell her to let Rhody make Rita’s fal-lals? ” 
suggested the doctor. 

“ I will, certainly,” she replied. “ I will go 
immediately after breakfast.” 

The following Monday Margarita Church 
presented herself at Rhody’s door laden with 
boxes of embroideries, fluffy laces and web-like 
muslins. She was a glorious girl, impulsive 
and generous, overflowing with life and joy and 
kindly spirits. She was tall, well-formed and 
graceful; a clear, brilliant complexion, snapping 
black eyes, and smooth dark hair gave beauty 
to her somewhat irregular features. 

She entered the little house like a breeze, 
and before many minutes were over, she and 

104 


R H O D Y 


Rhody were laughing and talking as if they had 
been friends for years. 

It took a long time to decide where tucks 
and ruffles should go, how lace and embroidery 
must be combined for the best effect, but finally 
it was all settled. 

“ Fm so glad you are to do these things for 
me, Rhody,” said Rita. “ I know they will be 
lovely.” 

“ You don’t know how I’ll admire to do 
them; I love pretty things.” 

“ I’m sure of that. Do you know I have 
often wanted to get in here, — I think it is one 
of the cunningest little places I have ever seen, 
and your flowers are always so beautiful.” 

“ Yes, Miss Rita, I think the flowers are 
beautiful — Joe planted every one of them 
himself for me before we moved in.” 

Rita was familiar with Rhody’s story; and 
her own life, just now so full of Its new-found 
love seemed a strange contrast to that of this 
woman, younger than herself, left to face life’s 
greatest ordeal alone. 

“ You were happy, weren’t you? ” 

“ So happy.” 

105 


R H O D Y 


“ But,” said the girl with conviction, “ he is 
coming back to you, I know he is.” 

“ Yes’m, and so do I, that's why I keep the 
home up. I know it same as the bees know 
where’s the clover, and the birds when it’s time 
to come or go; only it’s the waiting as is kill- 
ing.” 

“ Indeed,” said Rita, “ it must be.” She 
bent impulsively and kissed her, and with that 
kiss was sealed a friendship which to Rhody, 
at least, seemed sent from Heaven. 

Many were the conferences held over the 
sewing. Rita ran in constantly to make sug- 
gestions, to have fittings, to supplement this bit 
of lace for that piece of embroidery, and with 
every visit Rhody’s adoration grew. She could 
talk with this friend as with no one else in the 
world, for Rita understood. She was broad 
enough in her sympathies to see beyond her 
own thoughts and feelings and to comprehend 
the things for which Rhody was so nobly strug- 
gling. 

The lingerie, when finished, was a tribute to 
Mrs. Martin’s teaching. Rita went over to 
Rhody’s for a final inspection one morning and 
io6 


R H O D Y 


found every dainty piece exquisitely pressed, 
folded, and set out on the kitchen table. 

“ Rhody,” she exclaimed, “ there never was 
a bride who had lovelier things than these.” 

“ No bride ever had so many stitches as was 
prayers put into her things. I’m sure.” 

“You dear Rhody!” said Rita, patting her 
cheek. 

When the front yard was again in bloom 
and the birds were building their nests in the 
vines, little Johnnie came; but the recreant 
father had not returned. 

“ If only Joe could see our baby, Miss Rita,” 
said Rhody one afternoon when Rita happened 
in, “ horses nor steam-cars couldn’t bring him 
home fast enough. He’d just love his cute cry- 
ing ways same as I do; he’s the light of life to 
me. Here he is near two months old and truly 
I don’t b’lieve he’s ever let up more’n ten min- 
utes at a time since he came. Why, he trys to 
laugh and cry at the same time.” 

As the weeks sped by, the young mother was 
too full of the joy she found in caring for her 
fretful haby to realize how thin and wan she 
107 


R H O D Y 


was becoming. Rita Church, now Rita Owen, 
was living in New York or she undoubtedly 
would have remonstrated as did Doctor Up- 
ham finally, when, one afternoon in September, 
he dropped in to see how Rhody and the baby 
were coming on. 

“ My girl,” he said, looking at her keenly, 
“ it’s too big a strain, the care of that restless 
child and the support of the family; you are 
overworking. Why don’t you go to your 
mother’s where you can have help? ” 

“No, no, doctor, I can’t do it; — Joe’ll be 
home soon now.” 

“ What makes you so cocksure of that? ” 

“ Why this, doctor, I know Joe. He’s a 
restless, roving nature, store work was hard on 
him; besides, sickness or suffering, or the like 
of that makes him wild. He knew what I was 
coming to, and I’m sure the night when he 
was so restless, he just lit out because he 
couldn’t face seeing me suffer.” 

“ Ump ! ” was the doctor’s not over-gra- 
cious rejoinder. 

After he had gone, Rhody sat by the open 
window with little Johnnie in her arms. 

xo8 


R H O D Y 


Though it was near the end of September, the 
evening was warm. A gentle breeze stirred 
in the pines across the quiet lane. Once she 
thought she heard a foot-step in the yard, but 
the baby at that moment lifted his voice in 
urgent appeal and claimed her whole attention. 

Meanwhile, a man passed through the gar- 
den gate and quietly entered the house by a 
door at the rear. He stood in the doorway, 
taking in the scene as best he could through 
the evening gloom. Rhody, her head thrown 
back against the rocker, her eyes closed, sang 
as she rocked the child in her arms: — 

“A charge to keep I have: 

A God to glorify; 

A nev — ” 

The man moved. Rhody looked toward the 
door and saw Joe Meserve watching her; saw 
him go over to one side of the kitchen and 
hang his hat upon its accustomed peg; saw him 
go to the table and lay a package upon it, then 
cross the room to her, — but she neither spoke 
nor moved. He leaned over and kissed her 
and looked at the child in her arms; and then 
109 


R H O D Y 


he broke into a gleeful boyish laugh, a laugh 
so full of joy that it seemed to fill the little 
room. Then nonchalantly pointing to the 
parcel on the table, he spoke. 

“ Rhody, sweetheart, there’s your brush and 
soap — the best I could find at Brockett’s.” 

“Wait, doctor, wait I” called Rhody, run- 
ning into the street to stop Doctor Upham as 
he drove along behind “ Brown Bess.” 

“Whoa! what’s up, girl? You look as if 
something wonderful was going to happen.” 

“ Something wonderful has happened. Joe 
came home last night! ” 

“ Where had the rascal been? ” 

“ I’m going to let bygones be bygones, 
doctor; where he’s been I have no idee.” 


no 


R HO D Y 


CHAPTER VIII 

Rhody, true to her word, let bygones be 
bygones and did not once question Joe as to 
where he had been or what he had done. He 
was home and she was glad — what mattered 
the past? As for Joe, he never referred in 
any way to his six months’ absence; never even 
inquired how Rhody had fared. He sought 
employment across the river, and, when he 
found what suited him, he went to work as if 
nothing more were involved than a day’s 
change from Brockett’s to the mills. 

But change of occupation necessitated a 
change of domicile; as the Willow Lane cot- 
tage was too far from the factories to admit of 
Joe’s returning home for his noonday meal, 
they moved to Rodney Mills. 

Here life was more congenial to Joe for 
his work brought him In touch with many peo- 
ple. He thoroughly enjoyed the turmoil and 
movement of life about him; the hum and buzz 


III 


R H O D Y 


of machinery; the men and women at their 
stands feeding the huge machines; the merry 
jest and banter. 

He was a good workman and his habits of 
neatness secured for him, at first, a position 
where care in the handling of fine paper was 
necessary; then, as time went on, he was pro- 
moted, step by step, until at the end of three 
years, he was made salesman for one of the de^ 
partments. In this capacity he was at his best, 
and many were the comments made upon his 
manners as he dealt with buyers or conducted 
visitors about the premises. 

The social position of the Meserves was now 
second to that of none in Rodney Mills; but, 
as is generally the case, the demands of social 
prominence required a corresponding manner 
of living. 

According to Joe, they must have a parlor 
furnished with plush-covered furniture ; be- 
sides, a salesman, obliged constantly to mingle 
with outsiders, should be well-dressed. Then, 
too, though an occasional shave did well enough 
when he was selling dry goods and groceries, 
now the barber at the Red Lion must daily re- 
112 


R H O D Y 


move the hirsute growth. So It was that the 
bank account, in spite of Rhody’s most conscien- 
tious endeavors, did not increase in proportion 
to their worldly advancement. However, she 
was content. Joe was clearly valuable at the 
mills and perfectly happy. Nevertheless he 
was little more than a pink and white dandy 
whom many of the women admired and most of 
the men ridiculed, although it is true that good 
nature and a desire to please made him liked, 
if not admired, by his masculine associates. 

But Rhody won the friendship and esteem 
of men and women of all classes, by her gentle 
sympathy for every form of weakness or dis- 
tress, by her generous tolerance, and willing- 
ness to lend a helping hand to every one. 

“ She has a rare nature,” said the Reverend 
James Edmunds, speaking of her to Miss 
Maria Upham. “ She is one who can love 
down the ladder as well as up, and that is 
something few of us do. She Is ignorant as 
most of us count Ignorance, but she has insight, 
a quality rare In her walk of life, and Insight 
Is worth all the book learning in creation. If 
I want the true estimate of a character in my 


R H O D Y 


congregation, I go to Rhody — she sees. She 
has helped me more than any one else I know 
to an understanding of the people of Rodney 
Mills.” 

“ She is a sweet and lovable woman,” as- 
sented Miss Upham, “ but to my mind she lacks 
force.” 

“ There you’re wrong, Maria,” chimed in the 
doctor, “ that girl has great personal force. I 
have myself called her fool when most admiring 
her, but that does not alter the facts. She 
does not gauge her life along conventional 
lines and we don’t always understand her, but 
she has her own wonderful way of minister- 
ing to those who never even dream they are in 
need of help.” 

“ Quite right, doctor,” agreed Mr. Edmunds. 
“ Her husband, for example.” 

Rodney Mills was a unique little town 
for those days, for the mill owners, though 
conservative, were kindly men who looked 
after the welfare of their people. The cot- 
tages where the mill hands lived were pretty 
and comfortable. There was a small hall on 
River Street, where plays and dances and lec- 

114 


R H O D Y 


tures were frequently given, and then there was 
the Cedar Hill Association founded by Mr. 
Daniel Church, for the promotion and encour- 
agement of civic pride. Miss Maria Upham, 
that indefatigable daughter of the Puritans, was 
its presiding genius. How well we remember 
her as with graceful dignity she rode her pie- 
bald pony up and down the streets of Rodney 
and “ The Mills.” She wore a short, gray 
riding habit, and a leghorn hat tied firmly 
down upon her white puffs; she carried a cov- 
ered basket on her arm, and In her hand she 
held a rake; and, as the pony sedately ambled 
with his mistress through the villages, her eagle 
eye scanned the roadsides for bits of rubbish, 
scraps of paper, or anything that marred the 
beauty of the way. Let a scrap appear — out 
went the rake and the offensive piece was quickly 
captured and put In the basket. 

The Dorcas Circle was another Institution of 
Rodney Mills. All the women of the village 
belonged to it. They met from house to house 
and sewed for charity; they looked after the 
poor of the neighborhood, and worked for 
Missions. 

115 


R H O D Y 


One afternoon when the Circle was in ses- 
sion at Rhody’s, a lively discussion arose over 
the raising of money for the foreign missionary 
fund, to which the society had been asked to 
contribute. Its members could not give money 
but they all agreed that they could spare time; 
and, after some pretty strenuous debating, it 
was decided to give a “ Benefit,” its proceeds 
to go to the “ Fund.” 

Mrs. Pratt at the very beginning of the 
meeting declared herself out of sympathy with 
the whole thing. 

“ Ain’t no sense,” she protested, “ in a pas- 
sel o’ hard workin’ wimmen like us raisin’ 
money for the heathens in their blindness when 
we have wus nor heathens right up thar in our 
own mountings.” 

“ Wal, I ’gree. Mis’ Pratt, with you on 
principle,” said Miss Mehitable Struthers, 
“ but we ain’t got no mishnerys here to send 
to them folks, and there’s heaps goin’ all the 
time to Chiny and Injia.” 

“What’s that got to do with it?” snapped 
Mrs. Pratt. 

“Why!” answered Miss Mehitable testily, 

ii6 


R H O D Y 


“jest this — ye can’t give to missions where 
there ain’t no mishnerys — kin ye?” 

“ Wal?” 

“ There hain’t no mishnerys to the hill folks 
so ’tain’t a mission, so we can’t send this money 
thar, so we may’s well send it where the pastor 
asks us to, ’thout so much kahemmin’ over it.” 

Miss Mehitable’s logic was unanswerable, 
but Mrs. Pratt stuck to her point nevertheless, 
though she agreed to help when the time came. 

It was difficult to decide what kind of an 
entertainment should be given. Mrs. Grubb 
thought theatricals not quite appropriate, con- 
sidering the object. Tableaux she surmised 
would be more in keeping, provided suitable 
pictures were chosen. But there came the hitch 
— how fix upon the subjects? 

“ We might choose Bible story pictures,” 
ventured Rhody. 

“ That seems likely,” agreed the chairman. 
“ Ladies, how does that strike you ? ” 

“ Strikes all right,” replied Mrs. Pratt, still 
on the warpath, “ but what’s Mis’ Meserve’s 
idees? ” 

Rhody, who never lacked imagination, 

117 


R H O D Y 


thought a moment before replying, then asked, 
“ How would it be to give from Creation 
Up?” 

From Creation Up ! The idea had the ef- 
fect of an electric shock upon the Dorcas So- 
ciety. From Creation Up! Why nothing so 
high-sounding, nothing so near to inspiration, 
had come their way before, but — how carry 
it out? It was a stupendous proposition. 
Ignorance and imagination often go hand in 
hand, and a poet tells us that amid privation 
the imagination finds its strongest stimulus; so 
our Rhody to the rescue. 

“ Why, there’s Adam and Eve, of course.” 

“ Of course I ” murmured the Dorcases with 
varying inflection. 

“Cain and Abel; Moses in the bulrushes; 
Abraham and Isaac; Isaac and Rebecca; Sam- 
son, and that girl as cut his hair off, what was 
her name? ” 

“ Dalia,” prompted Mrs. Pratt. 

“ Little Samuel saying, ‘ Speak Lord, thy 
servant heareth ’; ” here a murmur thrilled the 
circle, — “ David playing the harp that time 
King Saul went crazy,” continued Rhody. 

iiS 


R H O D Y 


“ Say,” broke in Lucinda Day, “ don’t she 
know her Bible, though?” 

“I learned to read from It, Mis’ Day; it’s 
the only book I ever looked into till I was 
grown up; it’s full of stories you know.” 

“ ’S all very well what you say, Rhody, and 
sounds mighty nice,” put in the practical Mrs. 
Pratt, “ but how in the land kin we tableau 
’em?” 

“Adam and Eve?” queried Mrs. Trix. 
This was a poser. The garden could be man- 
aged; they had staged garden scenes before. 
“ But,” declared Mrs. Pratt, “ decency Is de- 
cency, and I for one would never consent to 
act Eve.” A titter was with difficulty sup- 
pressed by the chairman, for Mrs. Pratt, at 
forty, tipped the scales at something over two 
hundred and fifty pounds. 

“ Wal, of course not,” said the Widow 
Trix, “ It’ll have to be brought down to date 
— Adam and Eve’ll have to be dressed.” 

Here Rhody chimed in, “ Bible says, Adam 
and Eve sewed fig leaves together and made 
themselves aprons. Now ’course, aprons In 
them days could have been as big as dresses, 
119 


R H O D Y 


who knows? Why, some aprons we have now 
are like dresses.” 

“Say!” ejaculated Mehitable Struthers, “I 
seen a picture to Doctor Upham’s of a Greek 
lady as had a dress as covered her real decent, 
but ’t warn’t no more a dress nor a apern. 
We could pattern arter that in green caliker 
and sew maple leaves dost all over it and any 
one would take Eve under sech circumstances.” 
Mehitable being now infected with the germ of 
insight, joined forces with Rhody and the 
tableau of Adam and Eve became a possibil- 
ity. But whom to choose for Adam and his 
mate? Joe Meserve was unanimously chosen 
to represent creation’s first gentleman. 

“ He’s so pretty an’ furrin lookin’,” com- 
mented Lucinda Day. 

And now Eve? Rhody would be suitable, 
but Mrs. Pratt objected. “ ’Twon’t do at all. 
To make that pictur’ worth shucks it must be 
contrasty,” which proved that Mrs. Pratt had 
some artistic taste. “ Some one as light com- 
plected and yaller-haired as Mr. Meserve is 
dark, ought to be chose.” 

“ That’s a fac’,” piped up Miss Tilly Trip, 
izo 


R H O D Y 


who until now had held her peace. “ That 
first pair must ’a’ ben so or there’d never ’a’ 
ben no blondes and brunettes.” This was con- 
clusive and it was finally decided that Miss 
Polly Church, Rita’s sister, should be asked to 
assume the role of Eve. She had frequently 
helped in the staging of plays and now it was 
thought she ought to be asked to take a part. 

The other tableaux were selected and a 
Dorcas was put in charge. 

Polly Church’s surprise may be imagined, 
when Mehitable Struthers extended to her the 
invitation of the Dorcas Circle. 

“ Miss Church, it is the desire of the ladies 
of the Dorcas Circle, to have you act in our 
Bible Pieters, From Creation Up, you for 
to take the part of Eve.” 

Mehitable saw consternation in Polly’s face 
and hastened to reassure her. 

“ Now, Miss Church, don’t you feel flustered 
about it ’cause we’ve did away with what would 
make most of folks object by agreein’ Eve can 
be brought down to date fur enough for her 
to have a long, stid of a short, apern.” 

Polly was completely nonplussed, but she 

I2I 


R H O D Y 


was a gentlewoman, and while she saw the 
humor and was amused by it she also under- 
stood what a serious matter the whole thing 
was to these simple women, who, in their en- 
deavor to make a success of their undertaking, 
saw no incongruity in bespeaking her aid, or in 
giving to her the distinguished part of the 
evening — that of the Mother of Mankind. 

She declined graciously, saying that she was 
about to visit her sister in New York; but in her 
place she suggested Earnestine Day, the flaxen- 
haired daughter of Mrs. Lucinda, who, she as- 
sured Mehitable, was far better suited to the 
part. 

“ From Creation Up ” proved a drawing 
title, and the success of the entertainment ex- 
ceeded the wildest imaginings of the Dorcas 
Society. 

Not only did the “ big folks ” from Rodney 
come over, but parties from neighboring vil- 
lages ; and the small hall was taxed to its great- 
est capacity. 

“ Adam and Eve brought down to date ” 
was a new idea, but Rodney Mills did not bother 
with subtle analyses; on the contrary, it declared 
122 


R H O D Y 


that one of the most beautiful scenes ever en- 
acted within Its borders, was that first tableau. 

Before the drawing of the curtain, Jeremiah 
Pratt, blacksmith on week days and baritone In 
the church choir on Sundays, read In sten- 
torian tones; — 

“ And the Lord God planted a garden east- 
ward In Eden, and there he put the man whom 
he had formed,*’ then, leaving the rest of the 
story for the picture, he stepped aside. 

The drawn curtain revealed a garden. 
Branches of dogwood and laurel, with a few 
oak and maple saplings placed about for back- 
ground, furnished a realistic Paradise. Eve, 
in flowing robe of green gauze thickly strewn 
with maple leaves, leaned one hand lightly upon 
the shoulder of her lord and master, whom she 
tempted with a sickly-looking apple (apples be- 
ing out of season, and cold storage not In 
vogue), while Adam, with one foot slightly 
advanced, pointed to the chef-d^ceuvre of the 
piece — a real, though dead, black snake. 

The sacrifice of Isaac would have been al- 
most as Impressive but for a quite unexpected 
and melodramatic ending. As the curtain 
123 


R H O D Y 


slowly parted for this tableau, young Isaac Pratt 
(chosen for his name rather than for parts) 
stood beside his aged grandfather, whose flow- 
ing beard made him look the venerable patri- 
arch. Isaac wore a long white tunic and 
carried on his back a bundle of fagots. Grand- 
father Jordan, leaning upon a staff, pointed 
dramatically beyond the stone altar, by which 
the luckless Isaac stood, into a thicket where 
the Days’ goat was tethered. But ere the cur- 
tain was well drawn, Isaac, overcome by the 
realism of the situation, suddenly uttered an 
unearthly yell and rushed from the stage; and 
the goat, alarmed by Isaac’s scream, burst her 
bonds and scampered away to safety. 

This diversion created a good deal of amuse- 
ment, but a touchingly pretty picture of John- 
nie Meserve kneeling in the garden, as little 
Samuel, quickly restored quiet. 

All the tableaux were pronounced wonder- 
fully fine, and “ Rock of Ages,” sung by the 
choir behind the scenes, and symbolized by 
Rhody, received great applause. Rhody was 
indeed lovely, — in a long white robe, her glori- 
ous chestnut hair falling about her, her beauti- 

124 


R H O D Y 


ful, tragic face raised in mute appeal to the 
rude cross which she clasped with both arms. 

“ There’ll never be nothin’ given in Rodney 
Mills as will come up to this evenin’s perform- 
ance,” declared Mrs. Trix. “There ain’t no 
twict for sech things.” 


I2S 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER IX 

The phenomenal success of “ From Crea- 
tion Up ” had hardly ceased to be the chief 
subject of conversation in Rodney Mills before 
that village, Rodney, and several neighboring 
villages, suddenly found themselves face to face 
with a terrible epidemic of scarlet fever. It 
developed among the children of the district 
school, and before Doctor Upham was aware 
of it, it was sweeping plague-like through the 
towns. Men, women and children sickened, 
and many died. Few families were unvisited 
by the dread destroyer. 

The Meserves’ home was one of those passed 
over, but instead of being thankful for the 
escape of his household, Joe became panic- 
stricken. 

He fretted continually, until Rhody believed 
that he really might contract the disease through 
fear. 

“ You ’mind me of the story of the Pilgrim 
126 


R H O D Y 


and The Plague Mis’ Martin used to tell 
about,” she said one day. 

“What’s that?” he asked. 

“ Why, a pilgrim coming from Injia met 
The Plague and he said, ‘Where you going? ’ 
‘ Oh ! ’ said The Plague, ‘ Pm a-going to kill 
ten thousand people.’ Well, one day, not long 
after that, the Pilgrim he met The Plague com- 
ing back and he walks up to him and says, ‘ You 
said you were going to kill ten thousand peo- 
ple, but you killed twenty thousand, how’s 
that? ’ and The Plague he laughs, and says, ‘ I 
killed ten thousand and the others died of 
fear.’ ” 

“ That’s all very well,” answered Joe, uncon- 
vinced, “ but how am I ever to stand seeing you, 
or Johnnie, or the both of you, sick, or perhaps 
be took with it myself? ” 

“ Joe, dear, see how good God has been to 
us so far.” 

“ That’s true, but when a horrid thing’s 
under your nose how can you help but fear it? ” 

“ I know,” she answered, able as usual to 
see his point of view even when differing from 
him, “ but if, instead of thinking about ourselves 
127 


R H O D Y 


and trouble that may perhaps come, we try and 
help our friends who are really in trouble, the 
happiness we’d get out of it would keep us 
well — happiness helps folks to keep well.” 

“ Who ever heard tell of such talk,” replied 
Joe scornfully. 

“ Mebbe I’m wrong, but if folks would think 
less about themselves and more about others, 
there’d be less misery in this world, of that I’m 
sure.” 

Rhody’s philosophy did not in the least ap- 
peal to Joe, who continued to bemoan his fate 
and to feed his fear, despite her warning. 

Though she had been forbidden by Doctor 
Upham to visit her sorrowing friends and 
neighbors, Rhody was not deterred from giving 
constant help: broths and gruels found their 
way to back porches, notes of encouragement 
or condolence were discovered tucked under 
doors, and more than once a little shroud fell 
into the hands of a heartbroken mother. 

Meanwhile, the pestilence slowly abated; the 
mills, which had been closed, were reopened, 
and before long the little villages settled back 
into the old humdrum life. 

128 


R H O D Y 


Joe regained his cheerfulness, and Rhody 
once more went blithely about her work. But 
one afternoon Johnnie complained of sore 
throat and headache, and when Joe reached 
home, the child was in a high fever. 

‘‘ Joe,” she said, meeting him at the door, 
wishing to spare him the shock of finding John- 
nie ill, “ Fm sorry to tell you Johnnie’s ailing 
considerable. Go and fetch the doctor, will 
you? ” 

While she was speaking, Joe began to trem- 
ble and grow pale. 

“ Is it — is it the fever? ” 

“ Vm ’feared it is.” 

He looked into her face and saw there her 
ill-concealed anxiety. He struck the palm of 
his hand against his brow and pushed past her. 
He went directly to Johnnie’s room, approached 
the bed with hesitation, and for a moment 
watched the little boy, who had fallen into a 
restless, feverish sleep ; then, with a sudden ges- 
ture of despair, he turned and fled like a mad- 
man from the house. 

Doctor Upham came in about an hour, but 
Joe was not with him and when, by ten o’clock 
129 


R H O D Y 


that night, he had not returned, Rhody knew 
that again in her hour of need he had deserted 
her. 

She went about her work caring for her sick 
child dry-eyed and with lips tightly compressed. 

The third day of Johnnie’s illness, about 
dusk, when he lay deliriously tossing and moan- 
ing, Rhody heard the front door open quietly, 
and in a moment Rita Owen stood in the next 
room. Rhody hastened to her and, with hands 
stretched out in warning, whispered hurriedly: 
“ Miss Rita, Mis’ Owen, for the love of Heaven 
where have you come from? Don’t you know 
Johnnie has the fever? Go, ma’am, go!” 

“ I know it, Rhody,” answered Rita quietly, 
“ and I’ve come to help you.” 

“ You!” 

“Yes, why not?” 

“ Your husband — your family! ” 

“ Mr. Owen is in Europe on business, and 
my family know all about it; don’t you want 
me, Rhody? ” 

“ Want you,” and the poor mother, for the 
first time since Johnnie became ill, burst into 
tears. Sympathy had opened the flood gates 

130 


R H O D Y 


of her despair, but Rita comforted her in her 
quiet way and presently she became calm. 

The two women fought hard for the life 
of the child, and together they pulled him 
through. 

“ Oh, Miss Rita, how can you be so good to 
me? ” asked Rhody one day; “ you so fine, and 
me so lowly.’* 

“ Rhody,” she answered, “ it seems to me 
our stations in life should have nothing to do 
with the question of friendship. I love and 
admire you, that is enough.” 

“ God bless you I ” was Rhody’s reply, as 
she bent and kissed the hand of her friend. 

Shortly after this, Rita went to Springfield 
to see her husband’s grandparents and Rhody, 
now that Johnnie was rapidly recovering and 
cause for anxiety was removed, found herself 
subject to conflicting emotions — at one time 
she felt wholly crushed and indifferent, at an- 
other, positively despairing; and again, indig- 
nant. 

“ What does the man mean,” she asked her- 
self, “ treating me like this every time trouble 
comes near us, wandering Lord knows where 

131 


R H O D Y 


all over creation, then coming back smiling and 
loving when it suits him? Fm not going to 
put up with it, I’ll learn him a lesson, so I will.” 

It was during one of these periods of revolt 
that Mrs. Pratt dropped in for a neighborly 
chat. 

“ I know well ’nough what I’d do ef I had a 
galavantin’ husband,” she said with decision, 
in the course of the conversation. 

“ What would you do? ” asked Rhody, more 
to further conversation than because she felt 
any special interest in Mrs. Pratt’s ideas. 

I’d learn him a lesson onct and for all.” 

Rhody became interested. This was just 
what she had been telling herself she would 
do. 

“How?” she asked, glancing up from her 
sewing. 

“ I’d get a divorce.” 

“A divorce? How could I?” 

“ Oh, a lawyer could get it for you.” 

“It would cost some, wouldn’t it?” 

“ Oh, yes; but that could be managed. That 
young Larabee’s lookin’ for a room, you might 
give him your upstairs room and call it quits.” 

13a 


R H O D Y 


At that moment Rhody realized that she — 
she, Rhody Meserve — was being tempted to 
contemplate the thing she loathed. She quickly 
recovered herself. 

“ Do you mean to say, Mis’ Pratt, as you’re 
advising me to divorce Joe?” she asked with 
spirit. 

“ Yes, and then you’d be free and at liberty 
to choose a new mate.” 

“ On what grounds? ” 

“ Desartion, of course.” 

Rhody’s lips curled now with scorn. “ De — 
sertion, and do you think desertion on one side 
is any excuse for desertion on t’other? No, 
marm, I say this now and forever; law can’t 
unbind ’s easy as it thinks, them as God has 
joined; and I b’lieve if two folks is married, 
loving each other, and only one of them keeps 
true, no matter what happens, — mind you, I 
say no matter what happens, — if they don’t 
go a-fooling with the law, things will come out 
all right; that is, if living clean and trusting 
God has anything to do with it. And as for 
being free, who wants to be free? Not I; and 
able to choose a new mate I for God’s sake, 
133 


R H O D Y 


what do I want of a new mate when Tm half 
crazy because I haven’t got Joe?” 

Mrs. Pratt shook her head as this unusually 
long tirade from Rhody came to an end. “ I 
see, Rhody,” she said, “ you’re turrible sot, you 
ain’t even willin’ by your example to show 
other sufferin’ women In the world their dooty 
to themselves; it’s every woman’s dooty to de- 
fend herself agin bein’ down-trod.” 

“Joe never tried to hurt me; he’s always 
good to me, only he’s soft-hearted and can’t 
stand to see sickness,” answered Rhody, eager 
to defend him to others, though she condemned 
him to herself. 

As Mrs. Pratt rose to go, she said: “Well, 
Rhody, ef I kin be of any service to ye let me 
know. I’ve alles liked ye and I alles shall, 
though I do consider ye a soft-hearted goose.” 

A few days after this, Rhody sat listless and 
forlorn in her small front room. Johnnie was 
endeavoring to Interest her in the pictures In his 
animal book, trying in his childish way to amuse 
her. 

Some one knocked at the door and Rhody 
opened It to find Rita Owen upon the porch. 

134 


R H O D Y 


“ Oh! Mis’ Owen,” cried Rhody, overjoyed 
at seeing her again, “come in, do. My! you 
look some done out. I’m ’feared your visit to 
Springfield didn’t do you much good.” 

“ I had rather an anxious time there,” said 
Rita, taking the chair Rhody offered her, “ and 
I have come to see if you can help me solve a 
troublesome problem.” 

“ If there’s any known thing on the face of 
this earth I can do for you, Miss Rita, I’ll do 
it.” 

“ Wait, wait, Rhody, not so fast. I’m go- 
ing to make a proposition that may not meet 
with your approval, and I assure you I shall 
perfectly understand if you refuse to fall in 
with my plans.” 

“ Tell me and we’ll see,” said Rhody. 

“ Why,” answered Rita, “ it is simply this. 
When I reached Springfield I found my hus- 
band’s grandparents both ill. The woman who 
had been keeping house for them, the sixth in 
as many months, had promptly left when they 
fell 111, and the only person there to look after 
them was old Ben, a negro servant nearly as 
old as Grandfather Owen. I got a nurse as 
135 


R H O D Y 


soon as I could, but nurses are scarce and this 
one can only stay until the fourteenth of this 
month, just a week from to-day. I have tried 
in vain to find some good woman to look after 
them.” She watched the effect of her words 
upon Rhody, who, she felt sure, divined her 
meaning. “ Suddenly the thought flashed upon 
me, ‘ Rhody ! Rhody would prove a blessing 
from Heaven to these dear, helpless old peo- 
ple.’ Will you go, Rhody, and keep house for 
them? You can take Johnnie with you.” 

Rhody’s face lost its color and for a moment 
she did not answer, then speaking low that the 
child might not hear — “ Mis’ Owen, only one 
thing holds me back,” her lips quivered. “ If 
Joe should come and find me gone ! ” 

“ He might learn a profitable lesson.” 

“ I know. I’ve thought of that; I’ve been too 
easy on him, I know. Miss Rita, I wouldn’t dis- 
pute you even if you were to call me a soft- 
hearted goose as Mis’ Pratt does, or if you were 
to say I was getting my deserts, as Mis’ 
Trix says. Every one tells me how I just spoil 
him; but you know, Miss Rita, though you are 
an educated lady and I’m only a poor ignorant 
136 


R H O D Y 


woman, that along one path we can travel hand 
in hand, and that’s love’s path.” 

Rita laid her hand over Rhody’s with a gen- 
tle pressure. “ Yes, dear Rhody, that is true.” 

“ Love is love,” continued the woman in a 
dreamy voice. “ Many and many’s the time 
I’ve wished I’d never set eyes on Joe Meserve, 
but having set ’em, it’s me never to take ’em off. 
Where he is I’ve no idea. Mebbe he’s dead; 
mebbe he’s gone for good; mebbe he’s on his 
way home now. Lord knows, I don’t, but this 
I do know,” she said, rising and clenching her 
hands tensely before her, “ living or dead, I 
love him; all the happiness I’ve ever known 
has been ’long of him; most of the sorrow I’ve 
had is ’long of him — yet I love him. Mis’ 
Owen — all there is to it.” 

Rita remained silent, giving the overwrought 
woman time to collect herself. This was a side 
of Rhody she had known nothing of. Indeed, 
she marveled at her ability so to express what 
she felt. 

“ Rhody, dear,” she said finally, “ indeed I 
do understand, and I do not call you a goose, 
but yet I do believe it would do Joe no harm to 
137 


R H O D Y 


find you had taken things into your own hands. 
He undoubtedly thinks that he can go and come 
as he pleases, and that he will find you here al- 
ways ready to forgive and forget.” 

Rhody turned her great soft eyes on Rita. 
“ I b’lieve you’re right, ma’am,” she answered 
slowly; “ would you let me think it over, over 
night? I like to take things to bed with me; 
mornings, on waking, often the way seems 
clear.” 


138 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER X 

When morning came Rhody had decided: 
she would go to Springfield. 

For over three years she ministered to the 
needs of the old people with the tender care of 
a daughter. 

No word from Joe reached her in all that 
time, nor any sign as to whether he were liv- 
ing or dead; but one night In a dream she saw 
him. 

“ I’m coming home, Rhody,” he said, “ not 
now, but soon.” 

“Joel ” she cried, stretching out her arms; 
but the phantom faded, and Johnnie woke, 
startled by her cry. “What ails you, Ma?” 

“ Nothing, dear. Ma was dreaming.” 

Again the next night, and the next, and for 
many succeeding nights, she held converse with 
her wayward spouse, who always, at the ques- 
tion, “Where are you, Joe?” disappeared; so 
she learned not to ask it. “ I’m coming sure, 
*39 


R H O D Y 


not yet, but soon,” was ever the substance of 
his promise. 

Then followed a hard moral struggle; drawn 
in two directions, she knew not which way to 
turn. “ Dreams often have lots to them,” she 
argued to herself; “ it’s not right to set your 
back up against a dream; if Joe goes home and 
finds me gone, what then? ” 

But, on the other hand, the thought of the 
peace and contentment she had brought into the 
lives of her frail old charges steadied her to 
wait until she saw things clearer. Rita was in 
Europe, or she would inevitably have sought 
her advice. 

“ Dear God,” she prayed, “ point me the 
way; I must do right, whatever happens.” 

A few weeks later the answer came, not out 
of the whirlwind, but in the “ still, small voice,” 
for one morning her old people were found 
hand In hand In the sleep that knows no waking 
here; their dearest wish fulfilled, that In death 
they be not parted. Rhody was now free to 
go home. 

She decided that Rodney, rather than Rod- 
ney Mills, was the place to which she should 

X40 


R H O D Y 


return. It would be easier to secure work 
there; and she felt she had not the courage to 
face Mrs. Pratt’s questions, Mrs. Trix’s covert 
sarcasm, or Mehitable Struthers’ prying -curios- 
ity. In Rodney the ladles would supply her 
with work and would ask no questions. 

She went back late In October with a small 
hoard of savings. She rented the Willow 
Lane cottage; she was confident of getting all 
the work she could do; so no fears for the fu- 
ture assailed her as, with quickly beating heart 
and mind full of tender memories, she pushed 
open the gate leading into the little yard, where 
but ten years ago Joe had brought her, a happy 
bride. As she reached the cottage, she became 
weak and giddy. 

“What’s the matter, Ma?” asked Johnnie, 
tugging at her skirt. 

“ Oh, dearie,” she whispered faintly, 
“ Ma’s thinking of Pa and the happy days we 
spent here long ago; here’s where you were 
born; and see, dear, the roses Pa planted for 
me; and that honeysuckle was just a little vine 
and now it covers all the porch ; and look at the 
larkspurs and the pineys and the phloxes.” 

141 


R H O D Y 


“ Why don’t Pa come home ? ” asked the 
child. 

“ He’s coming, only we must be patient.” 

“ When I’m a Pa I’m not going away,” as- 
serted the little fellow stoutly. 

“ Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie,” cried Rhody, clasp- 
ing him to her, “ see that you don’t 1 see that you 
don’t!” 

That afternoon they went to Rodney Mills 
to have the furniture, — which had been stored 
in the Trixs’ barn — sent over to the cottage. 
As they neared the house, Rhody’s eye caught 
a spectacle which, for the moment, stunned her 
— for as she looked she realized that the barn 
lay a charred mass upon the ground. It had 
burned only the evening before, while the fam- 
ily was at prayer-meeting. 

“What’ll you do, Rhody?” whined the 
Widow Trix. 

“ Do ? ” she answered, a trifle hopelessly, 
though not without spirit; “ do same as I’ve al- 
ways done — go to work.” 

But, to her surprise and disappointment, the 
work she had been so sure of she did not get, in 
spite of the notices she had pinned up in the 
14a 


R H O D Y 


post-office and Brockett’s store, and the mes- 
sages she had sent her former friends and 
patrons. 

Rita Owen was abroad; Miss Maria had 
taken her father by main force for a vacation; 
some of the people she used to work for had 
moved away. Other women had taken her 
place, and now, after three years’ absence, she 
found herself almost a stranger in her old 
home. Her father had died just after she 
went to Springfield, and a year later her 
mother had married again and moved out west; 
brothers and sisters were scattered; she was 
alone and felt utterly forsaken. Her small 
savings were going fast for the bare necessities 
of life. A mattress and a comforter, a stove 
and a table, constituted the furnishing of her 
home; boxes serving in lieu of chairs and 
bureaus. 

Winter was hard upon them when Rhody 
awoke to the stern fact that she and Johnnie 
were facing starvation or the workhouse. 
Then, and only then, did she break down. 

“ Ma, Ma, why do you cry so? ” asked John- 
nie, coming in from his play. He was alarmed 
143 


R H O D Y 


when he saw her weeping and wringing her 
hands. 

“ Oh, Johnnie, Ma’s so tired.” 

He flung his arms about her. “ Don’t cry, 
don’t. Mammy.” 

“ I can’t get work,” she sobbed, “ and I don’t 
know what’ll become of us.” 

Make some one give you work. Come, 
Ma, come,” he cried, dragging at her hand; 
“ come, ril make ’em.” 

She ceased her weeping and looked into the 
flushed and determined face of her little son. 
A gleam of light was shot into the darkness of 
her soul; she drew him to her and laughed 
aloud. “ Why, Johnnie, so we will ! we’ll make 
’em give us work. Unless you’re prosperous in 
this world people soon forget you, but you and 
I’ll take a stand with fate, that’s what we’ll do. 
You , and I can’t starve, Johnnie; I’m able to 
work — I’m no pauper — the world owes us a 
living, we’ll go and demand work.” 

They went to Mrs. Curtis, who in the past 
had always taken a good deal of interest in 
Rhody. The good woman was really glad to 
see her back; she led the little boy and his 

144 



“You AND I can’t starve, Johnnie” 





%■ 




R H O D Y 


mother into her sitting-room and refreshed 
them with cider and doughnuts; she asked 
Rhody numerous questions as to her welfare, 
but she regretted that just then she had no 
work. 

“ Mis’ Curtis,” cried Rhody in desperation, 
“ you 7nust give me work. I’ve got to have it; 
Johnnie and I will go to the poor-house, or we’ll 
starve, if you ladies don’t give me work. I 
wonU beg, nor I voon* t go on the town. I’ll 
work as I always have, prompt; and I’ll work 
good and I’ll prove you can’t do without me. 
YOV MUST GIVE ME WORKT 

Mrs. Curtis stared at her in amazement; 
could this changed woman be the gentle Rhody 
of other days — this woman in whose eyes she 
saw a determination that refused to be defeated? 
She had always considered Rhody as capable 
and industrious, but far too yielding for her own 
good. 

“ Why, Rhody Meserve, is this you I ” was all 
she could say. 

“Yes, marm, it is, and I hope. Mis’ Curtis, 
you won’t consider me bold nor impertinent, but 
there ain’t any sense in an able-bodied woman 
145 


R H O D Y 


like me starving or begging, and I’m not going 
to.” 

Mrs. Curtis, deeply impressed, thought a mo- 
ment, then hurriedly left the room. She re- 
turned shortly with a bundle. 

“ Rhody,” she said, “ you are quite right. 
We ladies must help you; my balmoral needs 
a new flounce, will you fix it? ” 

“ Thank you. Mis’ Curtis, you’ll never be 
sorry for this,” said Rhody gratefully. 

Mrs. Curtis took it upon herself to present 
Rhody’s case to the various ladies of Rodney, 
and in a few days she had enough work on hand 
to keep the wolf at bay, at least. 

She did the work they gave her as she said 
she would, promptly and well, and before long 
she had more offered her than she could do. 
In the end she did prove that they could not 
get on without her; for she sewed for them, she 
baked for them, she made their rag carpets, and 
she quilted their quilts; she helped at the wed- 
dings, she nursed them when sick, and laid out 
the dead; there was nothing she could not or 
would not do. 

Prosperity restored her spirits somewhat. 

146 


R H O D Y 


After a time she moved into a larger cottage; 
bit by bit she furnished it, eager that all should 
be comfortable when Joe came home. That 
he was coming she never doubted, — “ dreams,” 
she assured herself, “ has lots to ’em. It’s 
never right to turn your back entirely on a 
dream.” 

But while she looked longingly for the wan- 
dering Joe, while she knew that when he came 
she would in the end accept him, she was 
changed. 

Hardship, heart-break and disappointments, 
struggles with poverty and for self-respect, had 
toughened in great measure the pliant softness 
of her nature, leaving her no less loving, but 
less impulsive and more self-reliant. 

“ You must help Ma make a little garden, 
Johnnie,” she said. “ Pa loves the flowers and 
growing things; we must have all ready case 
he comes.” 

“Will he come?” asked Johnnie, reluctant 
to go to work, and skeptical about his father’s 
home-coming. 

“ Surely,” answered his mother. 

“ When?” 


147 


R H O D Y 


“ I don’t know, but some day; and I’m glad 
he didn’t come till we were comfortable. He’d 
have lit right out if he’d come when we were 
sleeping on the mattress on the floor, Johnnie 
boy; Pa can’t stand discomfort.” 

True to her presentiment, Joe did come back, 
but not until two years after her return to Rod- 
ney. 

It was upon a cold blustering night that the 
wanderer surprised his family. The kitchen 
was warm and cheerful ; Rhody sat by the table 
sewing, and Johnnie, not far from her, lay on 
the floor testing the merits of a new jack-knife. 
The kettle was singing on the stove and the lamp 
threw its cheerful beams about the pleasant 
room. A step outside startled Johnnie, who 
spoke to his mother. 

“ Ma, some one’s at the door.” 

“ I think not; I didn’t hear any one.” 

“ I did, I heard a — ” but before Johnnie 
had time to finish, the door opened and a man 
muffled to his ears in a great coat stepped in- 
side. 

“ Who do you want? ” asked Rhody, not for 
the moment recognizing the black-bearded man 

X4S 


R H O D Y 


before her. The words, however, were hardly 
out of her mouth before he had clasped her in 
his arms. 

“ Rhody I don’t you know me ? ” 

“ Joe,” she cried, struggling to free herself 
from him, but he held her close. 

“ My, but I’m glad to see you ! ” he said, 
kissing her again and again. Finally he re- 
leased her and turned to Johnnie, who was 
clinging to his mother’s skirts while he sought 
shelter behind her. “ Come here, my boy,” he 
called, “ come here to Pa,” but Johnnie refused 
to budge. 

“ My ! ” he exclaimed delightedly, turning 
again to Rhody, “ how nice it is to see you so 
comfortable; moved ain’t ye? ” 

“ Joe,” she gasped, “ where in sense have 
you been? ” 

“ ’Round the world.” 

“ ’Round the world! How come you to go 
’round the world? ” 

“ Why, you see,” he replied, taking off his 
coat and cap and making himself at home in 
the rocking-chair before the kitchen fire, quite 
as if he had just come in from the village; “ you 
149 


R H O D Y 


see, that night you gave me such a scare ’bout 
Johnnie I was desperate, and I couldn’t make 
up my mind to see you and that child go through 
a spell, and maybe ketch it myself; I’m tender- 
hearted, you know.” 

“ A queer way of showing your tender heart, 
Joe,” said Rhody quietly. 

He turned and looked at her; she was still 
standing in the middle of the room; there was 
an expression on her face with which he was not 
familiar. Where was his tender, clinging 
Rhody, the Rhody of ten years ago who had 
welcomed him with tearful joy, willing to let 
bygones be bygones? He found himself wish- 
ing to explain, to excuse himself to the new 
Rhody who now stood before him so self-pos- 
sessed. 

“ Sit down, Rhody, won’t ye? ” he said, push- 
ing the chair toward her and taking another 
himself. 

She gladly sank into the rocker, for she was 
trembling in every limb, and gathered Johnnie, 
big boy as he was, into her arms. Her heart 
was wildly beating its joy against her breast. 
Nevertheless, she was determined to hear where 
150 


R H O D Y 


he had been and what he had done, before she 
let him see any relenting upon her part. 

“ Go on,” she said quietly, “ I want to hear 
all you’ve got to say.” 

He glanced quickly toward her, then, some- 
what abashed, continued. “ It was like this, 
Rhody; as I’ve said, I was desperate, and it 
being Saturday night I had money in my pocket, 
so I wandered — somehow drove there — to 
the station just as the seven o’clock for Boston 
pulled in. I jumped aboard and ’fore I knew 
it, I was asleep. When I woke it was morn- 
ing and we were in Boston. I wandered about 
looking things over; I’d heard considerable 
about Boston, and first I knew I was down by 
the wharves where the big ships lay, some load- 
ing and some unloadmg. There was one fine 
sailing vessel as took my eye, she seemed about 
ready to start. I seen a bunch of fellows 
dressed in blue clothes and blue flannel sailor 
shirts, talking and laughing near, so I kind o’ 
sauntered up to ’em. I could hear their talk 
’bout the long voyage they was going to take; 
the countries they was going to see; and, ’fore 
I knowed it, I was asking questions and hearing 
151 


R H O D Y 


things as made my mouth water, and then I 
learned as how the ship was ready but short of 
hands and well — here was my chance to see 
the world, the thing I’d been longing for was 
being heaved at my head; and, ’fore I knew it, 
we was sailing out of Boston Bay. See, — ” he 
said, opening his shirt front, “ I had this done 
in the China sea.” It was an anchor, tattooed 
in blue upon his breast, a J on one side of it, 
and an M on the other. Rhody barely glanced 
at it. 

“ You might at least have written, Joe,” she 
said. 

“ Yes, so I might, but I couldn’t bear to grieve 
you by telling you the Atlantic was going to be 
between us. I meant to go only ’s far as Eng- 
land, then work my way back, but I got so inter- 
ested I just galloped right along with the gang; 
besides, I wanted to wait and write when I had 
some money to send you ; but when a man’s trav- 
elling it’s just come day go day with money. 
But never mind, I’m home again,” he said, 
jumpiiig from his chair and going toward her 
with outstretched arms. 

“ Well,” she answered, rising also and stand- 

XS2 


R H O D Y 


ing back from him a little, unwilling yet to un- 
bend, “ Fm glad you’re home, for Johnnie and 
I have seen awful times.” 

“ Don’t speak of it, Rhody,” he gasped, 
shrinking back and throwing his arm before his 
eyes as if to ward off a blow; “ don’t speak of 
it, I can’t bear to hear.” 

“ You, YOU, can’t bear to hear I ” she cried 
as she sprang to him, seizing both his hands. 
Holding them firmly, she forced him to hear her 
pitiful tale, which she told in passionate, broken 
sentences. 

Pain — but pain unmixed with shame — dis- 
torted his face. He quivered, as under a lash, 
while she made him listen. “ Yes,” she said in 
conclusion. “ I was tempted to divorce you I ” 

“To divorce me? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“What for?” 

“ Desertion.” 

He looked at her utterly confounded; then 
bowed his head upon his breast, while tears 
coursed over his bronzed cheeks. “ Oh, 
Rhody! Rhody! ” he sobbed, “ who ever would 
have thought you^d go back on me ! ” 

IS3 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER XI 

For several days Joe appeared subdued; 
truth to tell, he was somewhat awed by the 
Rhody to whom he had come back. She had 
never been more gentle, more tenderly solicitous 
in her thought for him; the change lay in a 
certain poise and dignity, a self-sufficiency that 
was wholly new. He could not understand it; 
but the new Rhody attracted him now as never 
before. He wanted to be with her, to listen to 
her, to watch her, so alert and deft at whatever 
she did. 

One morning he sat near her while she 
kneaded bread; he noted the beauty of her 
profile, the wavy masses of hair coiled low in 
her neck, the slender grace of her figure as she 
bent to her task molding the soft dough with 
easy movement of her wrists. 

All at once he sprang to his feet and went 
over to her. ‘‘ Rhody ! ” he cried, “ my, but 
you’re a beauty! ” 


154 


R H O D Y 


Startled, she turned to him. “ What ails 
you? ” 

“ No, honest, I never knew how good-look- 
ing you are. Why, say, you’re graceful as 
any dancing girl ’t ever I saw.” 

“ Dancing girl ! What do you know about 
dancing girls? ” 

“ Not much, but I saw a few in circuses and 
such.” 

“ Poor trash, ain’t they? ” 

“No; no, there you’re wrong; circus life is 
great.” 

She looked at him a little curiously. 
“ Well,” she said, “ I never concerned myself 
with circus life; I don’t know anything about 
it, nor do I care to.” 

“ I do,” he answered a trifle sharply. “ I 
didn’t tell you I was with a circus all last sum- 
mer.” 

“ You were with a circus! ” 

He nodded. “ Peg driving for the show 
tent.” 

“ I thought you went sailing ’round the 
world,” said Rhody, a shade of suspicion in 
her voice. 


155 


R H O D Y 


“ I did, but you see when we got to San 
Francisco, I couldn’t stand to think we was in 
America and still would have months of sail- 
ing down the Pacific, ’round the Horn, and up 
the Atlantic ’fore I could see you again. 
Sweetheart, I wanted to get home to you, so I 
left the ship and came east, some of the time 
with a travelling circus. My, but that was 
great.” 

“ I always heard tell circus life was an awful 
wicked life.” 

“So did I, but it’s no such a thing; there 
ain’t a straighter lot o’ folk in creation.” 

“ How did you get from San Francisco 
here?” 

“ Come in schooners.” 

“Over land in a schooner?” she asked in- 
credulously. 

“ Prairie schooners, Rhody, that’s what 
they call the big covered wagons as crosses the 
continent. Oh, it’s grand I the mountains are 
so high, and the prairies are so big and flat. I 
wasn’t all the time with the circus; I come over 
the mountains with a bunch of prospectors and 
at Chicago picked up some more work with 
156 


R H O D Y 


another circus. I’ve seen sights, I can tell 
you.” 

“ Yes,” she answered, as she set her bread 
away to rise, “ seems that way.” 

For the rest of the day, Joe was quiet and 
self-absorbed; he spent most of the time in 
the rocking-chair gazing out of the window. 
Rhody noticed this, but as he seemed quite con- 
tent, she said nothing and concluded he was 
just enjoying the quiet of his well-ordered 
home after his life of travel and adventure. 

It was almost tea time when he roused him- 
self and went for a walk with Johnnie, while 
Rhody busied herself with preparations for the 
evening meal. When all was about ready, 
Joe and Johnnie appeared in high spirits. 
She could hear Johnnie’s ringing laugh out by 
the gate, and from her heart there rose a 
prayer of thanksgiving. “ Oh, how good it 
is! Joe home, kinder than ever. Hear ’em 
out there.” 

She greeted them as they came in with a 
smile of welcome, then turned to the stove to 
watch her cooking. 

Presently Johnnie came over to her, his eyes 
157 


R H O D Y 


fairly dancing with merriment. “ Ma, Ma,” 
he whispered excitedly, tugging at her apron, 
“ look at Pa.’’ 

She turned — “ Joe 1 ” she screamed. 

He was “ all fours ” upon the floor, his 
head thrust between his legs, and, as she uttered 
her cry, he deliberately turned his face upward 
and grinned at her. 

“ Joe,” she moaned, “ quit that, you’ll break 
in two.” 

“ No, Ma,” he answered, calmly untwisting 
himself, “no, I did that for a purpose; I find 
I am an A I circus performer.” 

** Y ou an A i circus performer! ” 

“ That’s the size of it; there’s money in me, 
lots of it. We’re going to make our fortunes, 
you, and Johnnie and me.” 

Rhody had dropped into a chair; with star- 
ing eyes she gazed at him, deprived of the 
power of speech. 

Absorbed in his subject, Joe took no notice 
of her behavior, but continued. “ We’re go- 
ing to do acts. We’ll practice odd times, and 
in the spring we’ll join a company and go on 
the road at fifteen dollars a day I ” 

15S 


R H O D Y 


“At what?” she managed to gasp. 

“ Fifteen dollars a day, and mebbe more.” 

“ What in the world are you saying, Joe 
Meserve? ” 

“ Get supper and Til tell you.” 

At the table he proceeded to outline his 
amazing scheme. 

“ Now, Ma,” he concluded, pushing back 
his chair from the table and thrusting his 
hands into his pockets, “ Fm going to teach 
you a back act, and Johnnie’ll learn to swing 
and jump. You see,” he continued after a 
short pause, during which Rhody looked per- 
fectly dazed, “ Fm a contortionist — ain’t a 
hard bone in my body.” 

Rhody struggled for speech ; at last she man- 
aged to say, “ Me, me do a back act — are you 
clean crazy?” 

“ Not a bit, not a bit,” he answered calmly. 

From that day, little else was thought of or 
talked about. Joe began training Johnnie at 
once; and after much persuasion Rhody con- 
sented just to try and see if there was any cir- 
cus stuff in her. Much to her surprise, she 
found the things Joe proposed were not beyond 
159 


R H O D Y 


the range of possibility, and ere long she was 
making not ungraceful somersaults from the 
foot-board of the bed to the mattress. 

In consequence of all this, Joe was too busy 
to seek other employment. Rhody sewed 
early and late to make ends meet. Neverthe- 
less, she was perfectly happy, for Joe was con- 
tent, and what more could she ask? 

When not practicing his troupe or himself, he 
spent a good part of the time writing what 
Rhody called “ high liluting ” letters to various 
travelling shows advertising the Three Tre- 
mendous Trumbull Tumblers. 

One day early in April Rhody had run over 
to Mrs. Church’s with some work; on her re- 
turn, she found Joe in a state of intense excite- 
ment. 

“Rhody I Ma!” he cried, taking her into 
his arms and dancing about the room, “ you’re 
a circus girl at last, a circus girl at last I ” 

“Joe! Joe! don’t,” she panted. “What?” 

“ There, sit down,” he said, putting her into 
the rocker. “ Since you went out a man, an 
advance for the Bumble Show has been here, 
and just on me making a bridge of myself and 
i6o 


R H O D Y 


grinning at him through my legs, he’s took the 
whole bunch of us. I told him you was a 
won’er and Johnnie here dumb up on me and 
somersaulted for him. My ! ” he exclaimed, 
sinking into a chair, “ ain’t it grand I ” 

Rhody looked at him, only half taking in 
the situation. 

He jumped from the chair and stood before 
her. “ Now, Ma, you must make our 
trunks.” 

“Our trunks? Why should I make a 
trunk? ” 

“ Clothes,” he roared, suddenly overcome 
with laughter. 

“What kind of clothes are clothes called 
trunks?” she asked bewildered. 

“ Circus dress is flesh-colored tights drawed 
on from toe to neck; then come the trunks, 
short, fullish things fastened just below the 
thigh, trimmed with spangles and gold braid, 
and for you a little sleeveless jacket* spangled 
and braided.” 

Rhody stood up, her face flushed with in- 
dignation. Once or twice she opened her lips 
to speak but closed them again. “You’ll 

i6i 


R H O D Y 


never ketch me in any such a get-up,” she 
finally flashed out. 

“ Oh, yes, Ma,” answered Joe easily, “ it’s 
the only circus dress known.” 

“ Not much dress to it s’ far as I can see,” 
she retorted. “ I’ll not wear it.” 

Not believing for a moment that anything 
would come of either the practicing or the let- 
ters, and hoping that as time went on Joe would 
tire of such foolishness, Rhody had simply 
done her part to keep him near her and con- 
tented. She had felt no real interest in the 
scheme, but, always willing to humor him, she 
had tumbled and somersaulted just to please 
him. Now this was quite another matter. 
But one day after a rather heated altercation, 
to Rhody’s intense surprise, Joe became se- 
riously angry. She had never even dreamed 
that he could get angry. 

“ Very well,” he thundered, “ don’t go with 
me. Don’t help me in the only thing worth 
doing; stay here with your sewing. I’ll find 
a trained girl as will go with me,” and he 
started for the door. 

Rhody listened to him in terror ; she saw his 
162 


R H O D Y 


hand upon the latch. “Joe!” she cried, 
“Joe! I will; I’ll go. Oh, Joe dear, come 
back, forgive me ! I’m selfish ! I’m mean ! 
Joe, I’ll go; only promise, promise you won’t 
say that ever again.” 

The next day he went to Albany to buy the 
satin and the spangles and the braid. 

“ I’ll get pink satin,” he said. 

“ Pink’s an awfully humly color on me, Joe, 
with my hair,” she answered. 

“Suits me; pink’s my color,” was his reply. 

It took some time to make the circus trunks, 
for a good deal of sewing had come in that 
spring and Rhody dared not lose a penny’s 
worth. However, one afternoon when Joe 
and Johnnie came in from the grove where, 
behind a natural wall of rock, they had prac- 
ticed on the soft turf, they found the three 
pairs of spangled trunks on the kitchen table; 
the big pair, and the middle-sized pair, and the 
little wee pair. They were loud in their 
praises and eager to try them on at once, but 
Rhody would not hear of dressing up at that 
time of day and skillfully put off the evil hour. 
But the next day after dinner, when the work 
163 


R H O D Y 


was done, Joe declared that they must have a 
dress rehearsal. It was important that they 
become accustomed to their circus costumes so 
that when acting in public they should feel per- 
fectly at ease. 

“ Acting in public in those things ! Oh, God 
have mercy!” groaned poor Rhody, inwardly 
rebelling more and more at the thought of her- 
self in such a garb. The idea became a night- 
mare to her, and nothing but the greater fear 
— that Joe would find another partner — kept 
her from open rebellion. 

She first dressed Johnnie; then, while Joe 
arrayed himself in the kitchen, she locked her- 
self in her room. With trembling haste and 
lips tightly compressed, she laid aside her 
clothes, drew on the flesh-colored tights, 
fastened the pink satin trunks about her, and 
slipped on the little spangled jacket. 

According to Joe’s directions she had 
braided her thick hair in two long plaits, fasten- 
ing a narrow fillet over her head which ended 
in a rosette of tulle and tinsel above each ear. 
Her toilet completed, she glanced at herself in 
the mirror and grew deadly pale. She reeled 

164 


R H O D Y 


against the bed, clinging to the foot-board for 
support. “ Oh, Mother I What would you 
say to see me so ! I can’t never, never do it! ” 
she cried, burying her face in her hands. 
“ Lord, Lord, I can’t, not even for my Joe! ” 
She fell upon her knees at her bedside and 
buried her face in the covers. “God!” she 
sobbed, “ I’m ashamed afore Thee, help me, 
help me.” 

Presently she grew calmer. “ Love suffers 
long and is kind,” she repeated softly. 
“ Rhody, Rhody, your love for Joe can’t be 
much if you can’t do this for him.” She rose 
from the bedside strengthened and prepared to 
steel herself for the ordeal. 

Just then Johnnie rapped impatiently at the 
door. “ Come on, Ma, me and Pa’s tired 
waiting while you prink. What makes you so 
long? ” 

“ I’m coming, Johnnie,” she called. She 
grasped the knob of the door to steady her- 
self. “ I’ll go cheerful, or not at all,” she 
whispered; “might as well quit a thing alto- 
gether as go about it glum.” She moved 
quickly over to the bed from which she drew a 
165 


R H O D Y 


gray blanket; this she wrapped lightly about 
her and stepped from the room. 

The spangled athletes were not prepared 
for the vision before them. Rhody, her face 
glorified by a smile which consecrated her to 
the work her soul abhorred, awed them into 
silence. With her sweet profile toward them, 
her head slightly bowed, her long braids of 
chestnut hair falling over the folds of the gray 
blanket, she looked far more like some sorrow- 
ing Marguerite or penitent Magdalen than one 
about to enter a circus ring. 

But the spell was broken when she dropped 
the blanket and stood before them bespangled 
like themselves. 

“ Bravo ! ” cried Joe, and without further 
comment — “Now then, position.” 


1 66 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER XII 

“ Yes, doctor, that’s where I’ve been all 
summer; no one knows it though, but you; I’ve 
taken particular good care they shan’t.” 

Doctor Upham leaned back in his deep arm- 
chair and looked at Rhody, an amused twinkle 
in the corners of his eyes. 

“ Well, really, Rhody, I wonder what you’ll 
be up to next.” 

“ It’ll not be circusing, sir.” 

“ You’ve not taken it up then as a profes- 
Sion i 

“ No, sir, not by any means. I told you 
how come I went. I went for Joe. It’s most 
onery to my mind for a woman to go about the 
country tumbling in pink tights.” 

This was too much. The doctor threw back 
his head and laughed aloud. “ By Jove, I 
think you’re right, my girl; I can’t imagine you 
at it.” 

“ It’s just wine to some folks, it is to Joe; 

167 


R H O D Y 


he’s clean crazy about the whole thing. The 
applause, the music, the spangles — he loves 
them all — loves to show himself off and hear 
the folks cheer.” 

“ Just what did you do? Let us hear about 
it. I declare I’m interested; I’ve always had 
a sneaking liking for the circus myself ever 
since I was a little shaver. I used to save my 
pennies months ahead for Circus Day.” 

“ Well you see, doctor, Joe learned he was 
boneless when he was with a traveling circus 
out west. He was peg-driving at the time, 
and he used to see the acting, so one night he 
went behind a haystack on the grounds and be- 
gan experimenting, and found he could do all 
kinds of queer things; that was the beginning.” 

“ And last summer was the end? ” 

“I ain’t so sure; come spring, he’ll want to 
be off again, but I’m not going, nor is John- 
me. 

“ He’ll raise the same racket, and you’ll 

go-” 

“ No, sir; wait and see. It don’t seem 
right and when I think a thing’s wrong then 
I’m sot.” 

i68 


R H O D Y 


“ What kind of a show were you in, a big 
circus? ” 

“ Lor’ no, just a small traveling show. You 
know the kind as goes about gypsy fashion and 
picks up audiences from the places the big 
shows never touch. Land, you don’t s’pose a 
big concern would have mej do you? ” 

“ I don’t know; one never does know about 
you, Rhody.” The doctor’s smile was kindly 
and affectionate. “ How did you get about? ” 
he asked. 

‘‘We drove in wagons like cages; ours was 
number six — sign Eagle. It was painted 
green and gold and had a big gold eagle on 
top. We slept in it nights in bunks. There 
were four bunks in ours: two on a side one 
atop another, and cupboards below for 
clothes. When we were moving, Joe drove 
and Johnnie and I sat aside of him on the seat 
till we got near a town, then we’d have to 
dress up in spangly cloaks and put gold paper 
crowns on our heads and sit above for the pa- 
rade.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the doctor, gleefully, “I 
remember, I remember. How interesting the 

j69 


R H O D Y 


people were as they sat up there on those cars, 
and how I used to wish I was one of the boys I 
I can see It all. How we watched for notices 
of the coming show; then up at daybreak, 
sneaking softly from the house — not a sound 
but the crowing of the cocks, the chirping of 
the birds. I can feel the fresh breeze on my 
cheeks as, barefoot, I went loping down the 
road to a certain cross-roads where other boys 
awaited me. Then a distant rumbling shook 
the ground, and the huge vans hove Into sight, 
— the golden cages, the great wagons. Down 
the road over the hill we followed to the circus 
grounds — there to spend a long, delicious 
day. Did you have clowns, Rhody, and a 
Bearded Lady, and an African Man-Eater, 
and Albinos? ” 

The doctor was forgetting himself. He 
was a boy once more, his mild blue eyes 
sparkled with Interest. “ Go on, tell me — 
well, now, to think that you were actually In it. 
Rhody, it is surprising! ” 

Rhody laughed. “Yes, sir; we had the 
Bearded Lady and all — only he never showed 
In parade because he was driving his own car.” 

%7o 


R H O D Y 


“Ho! ho! ha! ha! he was It?’’ roared the 
doctor. “ Now, Rhody, must my boyish faith 
be so upset? He!^^ 

“ Oh, doctor, but you’re a fun-maker. You 
know well enough about those things — say, 
the man-eater is porter at what he calls the 
Fifth Avenue Hotel winters.” The doctor 
was highly entertained. “ And the Albinos 
are a family as was raised in Vermont; they’re 
known as the ‘pink-eyed Lefflers ’ thereabouts; 
their hair is only molasses candy yaller which 
their mother crimped and powdered to make it 
stand out and look white.” 

“ What frauds did the Meserve family per- 
petrate? ” 

“ Called ourselves Tumblers,” replied 
Rhody, grimly. 

“What about your first performance? I 
marvel that you ever had the courage to go in 
for It; I can’t help admiring you, my girl, tho’ 
I must say you’re near to a fool to give in to 
that man of yours as you do.” 

“ I know It, doctor,” she answered frankly. 
“ I always was a fool about Joe.” 

She described minutely to her old friend the 
171 


R H O D Y 


experiences of the first day, and before she had 
finished there were tears in the doctor’s kind 
eyes. 

“ There are always some things you can like, 
even when most everything goes ag’in you, so 
with me. I liked the traveling from place to 
place, for we went through real pretty coun- 
try most times ; sometimes by the sea, and 
sometimes through the woods, and again over 
mountains. Some of the folks were nice. I 
made friends with them; they’re a cheerful, 
well-behaved lot of people — foreigners 
mostly — and my, they can do wonders! But 
the performances — I never got used to them ; 
and the pink tights were awful. It made me 
crazy every time I dressed In ’em, and the 
longer I wore ’em the worse they seemed. Oh, 
doctor, when summer was over, mebbe my 
heart didn’t beat with joy: home and cooking 
and sewing; Joe and Johnnie all to myself 
again, and that awful crucifying of my best 
feelings over. I just picked up flesh and color, 
till Joe noticed it and, as we were on the cars 
homeward bound, he said to me, ‘ Ma, your 
summer’s done you good, you look ’bout slx- 
172 


R H O D Y 


teen.’ I laughed. ‘ Do I? ’ I sez, ‘ well I feel 
considerable older.’ ” 

‘‘ I’m glad it’s over, Rhody, you had pluck 
to go through with it.” 

“ Doctor,” she said, rising, “ you’ll keep my 
secret, won’t you? ” 

“ I will,” he answered, “ but of course you’ll 
tell Mrs. Owen.” 

“ When she comes, of course.” 

The dreaded summer was over; Johnnie 
was back at school; Rhody was again well sup- 
plied with work, while Joe managed to keep 
occupied and happy with various duties about 
the house. 

He was clever with his pencil and earned 
small sums of money designing circus adver- 
tisements. As he was in the show business 
he could not condescend to mill or store 
work. 

One thought constantly troubled Rhody — 
how, when the time came, was she to break the 
news that she and Johnnie were not again go- 
ing tumbling? She could see that, while Joe 
made a pretext of being contented, he was only 
living for spring and the circus season. 

173 


R H O D Y 


One day, toward the end of February, the 
tug-of-war came. 

“ Ma,” Joe said, “ spring will soon be here, 
we must get to practicing.” 

There was such an unmistakable note of joy 
In his voice, such a thrill of pleasure, that 
Rhody’s heart smote her. 

“Joe,” she answered softly, “I’m not going 
parading in public In pink tights any more.” 

“ Wear blue ones then, Rhody,” he replied. 
“ I’m not such an obstinate cuss as to stick out 
for pink if you’re sot against it.” 

“It’s not the color, Joe, It’s everything — 
the dress, the life — it all goes against me.” 

“Why, woman! ” he cried, springing to his 
feet, “what ails you? It’s the greatest life 
on earth, going before crowds, surprising calls 
and applause, whilst the music plays, and the 
people yell. Why, Rhody, you must be jok- 
ing.” 

“ No, Joe, I’m not. I’m sorry to hurt you, 
oh, so sorry, Joe, but I did it for you once and 
for all. My mind’s made up, and you know 
when once it’s made, it don’t get onmade so 
very quick.” 


174 


R H O D Y 


He went to her and put his arm about her 
and looked into her eyes. “ Rhody, girl, will 
you let me go alone ? ” - 

“ Joe,” she sobbed, flinging her arms about 
him, “don’t; oh, please don’t! I mustn’t go, 
Joe, for Johnnie’s sake, I mustn’t. Stay you 
here in our little home, get some honest work 
to do and settle down.” She raised her tear- 
stained face and looked at him, but his eyes 
were cold with a far-away look. 

“ No, Rhody, I can’t do that; the folks, and 
the music, and the tricks are calling me, night 
and day — when spring comes I’ll follow the 
call.” 

He left home in May and all summer she 
lived upon his letters. Sometimes she won- 
dered if she had done wrong in not going with 
him, for in them he often referred to his lone- 
liness — “ If only you were here, Rhody.” 

She finally took her perplexities to the vil- 
lage confessor. Doctor Upham. 

“ In self-respect could I go again, doctor?” 

“ Rhody,” answered the bluff old man, “ the 
first time you were God’s Fool; the second time 
you would have been a damn Fool.” 

175 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER XIII 

Thus for several years, with little variation, 
did the history of the Meserves repeat itself. 

Joe developed his one talent so successfully 
that he finally commanded a reasonably good 
salary and, wonderful to relate, he sent a part 
of it regularly to Rhody who devoted it to 
Johnnie’s education. 

The fact that she made this use of his money 
afforded Joe the keenest satisfaction. He en- 
joyed telling his friends that he was educating 
his son at the Springfield Academy — it gave 
him an importance well pleasing in his own 
eyes. 

Johnnie was developing as a son of Rhody 
should. He was well-behaved, thoughtful 
and industrious. He wanted an education and 
was willing to work for it; and the reports 
sent monthly from the Academy showed how 
well he was doing. Rhody was proud of him, 
and with reason. “ Lord knows I’ve prayed 
176 


R H O D Y 


over him and watched over him enough, Mis’ 
Owen,” she said to Rita, “ and he’s paying me 
back more than I dared to ask.” 

And so, with Joe prospering and Johnnie 
fulfilling her highest hopes, it did seem as if 
Rhody’s troubles had come to an end. But 
one day about the time she was expecting Joe 
home for the winter, she received a letter from 
him which caused her great pain. “ I’m not 
coming home as usual this winter,” he wrote, 
“ for I’m contracted to a big two-ring circus, 
and along with my stage work I am learning to 
do some tricks on swinging traps which are 
going to bring us big money, as I shall be the 
only ‘ ground-and-lofty contortionist ’ in the 
show. So I must practice in winter quarters, 
but now and then I’ll come home to you, sweet- 
heart.” 

This news was a great trial to her; she had 
expected him home in about ten days. All 
was in readiness; the pantry stocked with jel- 
lies, jams, and pickles; the house cleaned and 
ready; and now, save for flitting visits from 
both her men, her winter must be spent alone. 

“ Ah, well, I won’t complain. I’ll just bide 
177 


R H O D Y 


patient and enjoy them when they come — it’s 
the lot of women to wait and weep,” thus she 
reasoned within her heart. 

Johnnie’s visits were regular, every week he 
spent Saturday and Sunday with his mother; 
and Joe came home much oftener than she had 
anticipated. “ Things never are half as bad 
as you think they’re going to be,” she said. 
Finally Joe had a whole month’s vacation in 
which to recuperate after a winter of practic- 
ing that had taxed his strength somewhat. 

In May he joined the circus for an extended 
tour through some of the principal towns of 
the country. His letters came regularly for 
a while, but by degrees they came less fre- 
quently and then for several weeks she heard 
not at all. 

“ ’Fore I knowed it, Rhody,” he wrote in 
apology, “ four weeks have passed without me 
sending you a word.” 

Remittances, too, were Irregular and Rhody 
began to wonder whether she should have 
enough money for Johnnie’s final year at the 
Academy. 

She expressed her fears in a letter which 
178 


R H O D Y 


brought an answer and a draft; but, after that, 
it was several weeks before she heard again, 
and then the letter was short and indifferent. 
“ He’s getting tired,” she thought. “ I s’pect 
he’s lonesome.” 

That same day she received through the mail 
The Register, a circus periodical, in which the 
dates and the stands of the principal shows 
were noted. Rhody, as was her custom, ran 
her eye down the column to see where Joe’s 
Show was booked next, and to her surprise she 
found that in less than two weeks it was to be 
in New York State not far from the State Line. 
She wondered that Joe had not mentioned the 
fact to her, and then she remembered that, as 
a rule, the performers did not know where 
their stands would be made, unless they saw 
The Register. She concluded that Joe had 
not seen it, or else that he did not wish to ag- 
gravate her by letting her know how near 
he was to be, and, at the same time, how 
impossible it would be for him to come to 
her. 

Mrs. Pratt happened in that afternoon and 
Rhody mentioned the matter to her. 

179 


R H O D Y 


“ Why don’t ye s’prise him and pay him a 
visit? ” 

“ Surprise him I ” Why had she never 
thought of it? Was there any one thing Joe 
loved more than surprises? 

“ Why, say, I never thought of that, Mis’ 
Pratt.” 

“ I did, ter onct; it’d chirk him up consid’r- 
able to have you drop in on him.” 

“ I’ll do it,” said Rhody. 

She was tempted more than once to write 
and tell him her plan, but she was restrained 
by the thought of how much more delightful 
the surprise would be. 

At last the day came, rather cheerless, some- 
what gray; but, as she dressed herself with the 
utmost care, she thought, “ What odds if it 
should rain cats and dogs or pitchforks; when 
Joe sees me, weather won’t cut any figger, he’ll 
be so glad ! ” 

She looked at herself in the glass for the 
twentieth time, for the thirtieth readjusted a 
bow at her neck, and set her hat a trifle more 
to one side. “ I’m not ashamed to join him, 
I look real nice; he likes to see me well 

x8o 


R H O D Y 


dressed,” she said as she locked the cottage 
door behind her. 

It was three o’clock when she reached her 
destination. Excitement had given her col- 
our; she stepped briskly from the train and 
followed the crowd out of the station and up 
the main street. She found the hotel and went 
in to inquire the location of the circus. 

The grounds were near the hotel and she 
despatched a boy to say that a lady would like 
to see Mr. Joseph Meserve. Then she waited 
with beating heart until the boy returned. 
Mr. Meserve was busy now, but would be over 
presently, he reported. 

“ Did he ask who it was wanted him? ” 

No, marm,” answered the boy. 

“ He’d never suspicion it was me,” was her 
inward comment. 

As the town clock rang five, she heard Joe’s 
voice in the office, then his step outside. She 
ran forward to meet him. 

“Rhodyl You!” he cried, as she opened 
the door; but instead of going to her, he 
shrank back with a gesture of fear. 

“Joe,” she panted, “ I come to s’prise you.” 

i8i 


R H O D Y 


» Oh! ” 

“ Ain’t you glad to see me? ” 

“ Yes,” he said wearily, “ I s’pose so.” 

“ Joe,” and she actually shook him, “ what’s 
come to you? I’m here to visit you, to s’prise 
ye. Ain’t you glad, I say? ” 

He looked at her indifferently. “ Yes,” he 
answered, “ but you took me so sudden like. 
I don’t like surprises.” 

“ Why,” she cried, hurt and shocked, “ you 
always said you’d sooner s’prise folks nor do 
any other thing.” 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ but that ain’t to say I 
like to he s’prised.” 

All this time they had stood facing one an- 
other; but, suddenly remembering his manners, 
which rarely so nearly forsook him, he offered 
her a chair and seated himself in another. 

For several minutes neither spoke; then 
Rhody broke the silence — “ Joe, you don’t 
seem glad to see me.” 

“ Oh, yes,” he said, “ I’m only wondering 
what brought you.” 

“ I thought your last letter sounded kind of 
downhearted. I thought you was lonesome 

182 


R H O D Y 


for me, and The Register told how you was 
booked for here, and so I come to see you.” 

“ No,” he answered absently, “ I warn’t 
lonesome.” 

Rhody bit her lip. 

“ Shall I go home ? ” she asked desperately. 

He pulled his watch from his vest pocket 
and deliberately consulted it. “ No,” he re- 
plied, “the last train south has gone; there’s 
no other till midnight.” 

“ Oh ! ” and her eyes filled with tears, 
“ I thought I was going to give you so much 
pleasure — and you seem sorry, sorry to see 
me I” 

“ Don’t, Rhody,” he pleaded. “ I’ve had 
enough of scenes; don’t get me upset; I can’t 
work when I’m troubled.” 

She went to him and laid her head upon his 
shoulder. “ Dear, what scenes have you had? 
I knew things was troubling you.” 

“ Nothing, nothing. I mean, I — It’s all 
right. Rhody, I am glad to see you.” He 
looked into her sweet, troubled face. “ Oh, 
Ma, I wisht you’d stayed by me in this busi- 
ness ; it’s you can keep me straight.” 

183 


R H O D Y 


“ I’ll come and travel with you, Joe, only I 
can’t act.” 

“ No, I’ve progressed way beyond you, 
Rhody. No, it’s too late now.” He shud- 
dered and glanced quickly behind him, a wor- 
ried look on his face. 

“ What’s troubling you? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

Rhody knelt beside him; she stroked his 
face, and spoke to him soothingly as a mother 
might talk to a tired child, until, yielding to 
the spell of her charm, he grew almost cheer- 
ful. 

“ I am glad for a fact that you come, 
Rhody, you always understand me.” 

This atoned for much of his indifference, 
and they sat quietly talking until, with a start, 
he announced that he must be going. 

“ You don’t want to come, do you, Rhody? ” 
he asked in an anxious voice. 

“ Why, sure I do.” 

“ I don’t want to have you. I’m ’feared it 
will make me nervous to have you in the audi- 
ence, my high act calls for steady nerves; you 
stay here,” 

184 


R H O D Y 


“ But, Joe,” she pleaded, “ I come partly to 
see you do this great act.” 

She saw his hands begin to twitch nervously; 
he continually looked toward the door as if 
afraid that some one would come in. 

“ Don’t come,” he blurted out finally. “ I 
can’t stand to have you.” With that he ab- 
ruptly left the room. 

Rhody sat absorbed in thought after Joe 
left her. She was puzzled. What could it 
mean? Something was troubling him. What 
was it? She could not tell. Why did he not 
wish her to go with him — not want her to see 
him in the great acrobatic feat of which he 
was so proud? Why should her being in the 
audience make him nervous? “I must see 
him; I can’t sit here alone, knowing he’s act- 
ing out there. I’ll wrap a veil around me and 
slip in; he’ll never know I’m there,” she said 
to herself. 

As the crowd surged into the big tent, 
Rhody, heavily veiled, joined the mass of hu- 
manity that good-naturedly jostled and el- 
bowed its way to the ladder-like seats. 

185 


R H O D Y 


As spectator, not participant, she enjoyed 
the “ show,” although she found the two rings 
confusing. Mingled with the pleasure was 
the pain of the afternoon which she tried to 
treat lightly. 

“No use of expecting things to come out 
your way always,” she tried to persuade her- 
self. “ Joe’s got a right to his way, ’s well’s I 
have to mine ; he was just tired and my coming 
shocked him like.” 

After the grand tournament, the wonderful 
juggling of the Le Bon brothers upon the 
backs of the running horses, the rollicking 
tumbling of a company of clowns, and the 
marvelous feats of bare-back riding — 
“ matchless for grace and dexterity,” announce- 
ment was made that the Josephys would ap- 
pear In their famous act — “ A Duplex Dem- 
onstration of Death-Defying Dauntless Dar- 
ing.” 

Rhody was growing impatient. It was time, 
she thought, for Joe to appear. He was be- 
ing kept back, perhaps, as a last great sensa- 
tion. She wearily closed her eyes; she was 
very tired and the seats were hard. 

i86 


R H O D Y 


The band played softly. “ There they 
come,” cried a man sitting next to her; “now 
there’ll be something doing — I know that 
chap.” 

Rhody opened her eyes and looked toward 
one of the rings — Was she dreaming? — Joe ! 
Was that Joe? Yes, it was he; but who — 
who was the girl with him, in pink tights? 
Spellbound, with heaving bosom and flashing 
eyes, she watched them — the man and the 
woman — as, wafting airy kisses here and 
there from the tips of their fingers, they ran 
hand in hand into the ring; watched Joe place 
the girl upon the swing and pull her to the 
dome of the tent, then climb hand over hand 
up a dangling rope to meet her. Rhody 
leaned far forward in her seat and, with 
strained eyes, followed them as they swung 
from bar to bar, and flew like birds from perch 
to perch, or caught each other by the hands or 
feet, faultlessly dexterous. Then the girl 
stood aside and Joe held the spectators breath- 
less with admiration and suspense as he con- 
torted his lithe and boneless body on the swing- 
ing trapeze. Quickly straightening himself 
187 


R H O D Y 


for his final great act, he made a flying leap, 
turned a double somersault in mid-air, and 
landed on his feet in the net below. Tumul- 
tuous applause followed this daring leap, and 
the band crashed forth a deafening finale. 

As the shouts and the music flooded the 
tent, a woman, closely veiled, made her way 
through the throng and hurriedly passed be- 
yond the canvas walls. 


i8$ 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER XIV 

“ Not a word from him yet, no answer to 
your letters ? ’’ 

“No, doctor.” 

“ How long is it now? ” 

“ Four weeks to-day.” 

“ Let me hear that letter. You say it’s 
from the girl’s mother ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Go on.” 

Rhody read with trembling voice — “ The 
show split in two, him and her went with one 
half, it’s busted, now’s your chance. Go to 
Middlebrook where they’re held for board, 
ketch ’em and send the girl home to me.” 

“ H’m.” The doctor rubbed his chin 
thoughtfully. “Well, my girl, what now?” 

“ I’m going after him, to bring him to him- 
self.” 

“ You can’t do it,” declared the doctor ve- 
hemently, bringing his fist down with a mighty 

189 


R H O D Y 


thud upon the arm of his chair, “ and what’s 
more, he’s not worth it.” 

“ If a man’s worth saving from drink and 
the like, ain’t he worth saving from himself? ” 

“ Gol ! ” said the doctor. 

The train left Rodney for Middlebrook at 
two o’clock. Rhody, the mere ghost of her- 
self, took a seat and looked absently from the 
car window. 

“ Always, always, my pestered spirits is up 
in them traps. Waking or sleeping, I see him 
hist her up, then climb to meet her, smiling as 
he climbs,” she murmured. “ Oh, if only the 
horrid picture would leave me one minute.” 
She leaned her head wearily against the case- 
ment and closed her eyes. Her appearance 
was so hopeless and forlorn, that the sympa- 
thies of a woman across the aisle were aroused. 
She moved to the seat back of Rhody, remark- 
ing as she did so that she wanted to get a better 
view of the mountains now glowing in all the 
wealth of the autumn coloring. 

“ Yes,” Rhody agreed, “ they look nice.” 

“ It’s an awful pretty day, took by and 
large,” continued the woman. 

X90 


R H O D Y 


“ Yes, a very pretty day,” echoed Rhody 
listlessly. 

“ Trees is changing wonderful.” 

“ Yes.” 

“Going fur?” 

“ Only to Middlebrook.” 

“ Middlebrook, is that so,” exclaimed the 
woman, again changing her place for a seat 
beside Rhody. 

“Who air ye goin* to see to Middlebrook? 
’S my home; I know all the folks there.” 

“ Do you so I ” exclaimed Rhody, showing 
interest for the first time. “ Then perhaps 
you can tell me, are the members of a busted 
show still in town? ” 

“ Sure, held for board.” 

“ Is there a man there as is named Mescrve, 
as works in the swings with a girl? ” 

“ There’s a man and his daughter as does 
sech things, but his name’s Josephy.” 

“ That’s him,” cried Rhody excitedly, for- 
getting entirely that she was speaking to a 
stranger. “ That’s him, that’s my husband 
and his name’s Meserve, and the girl’s no rela- 
tion — and — I’m after ’em 1 ” 

191 


R H O D Y 


“Well, I be!” ejaculated the woman; 
“ well, I be 1 — why, say, them two is passing 
themselves off as father and daughter, and that 
ain’t all. — Say, they seemed s’ fond of each 
other and so down on their luck and nowheres 
to go with the show busted, and he so takin’ — 
ain’t he got the nice manners ? — why, say, at 
this moment folks is taking up a purse for to 
set ’em up in a small cottage as is vacant, ’cause 
they say it’s a shame to separate a father and 
daughter as is so fond of each other. What 
do ye think o’ that? ” 

Rhody made no reply. She leaned back in 
her seat, wondering how she could face such a 
situation. While she sat thus considering, the 
train pulled in to Middlebrook. 

“ Now,” said the woman, getting out first 
and helping Rhody down, “ you go set in the 
waitin’ room tell I run over to Mis’ Jenkins 
with her dress pattern and then I’ll show you 
the hotel where Josephy takes his meals and 
where the girl works for board. It’s a dark- 
ish night for you to go alone.” 

Rhody thanked her and went into the little 
station. 


192 


R H O D Y 


After waiting what seemed an interminable 
time, she heard the sound of angry and excited 
voices outside, which grew louder as the talk- 
ers came around the corner and entered the 
room. It was Rhody’s traveling companion 
and a woman who scolded and gesticulated 
angrily as she crossed to Rhody. 

“ So ! So ! ” she cried, “ and what do you 
think of that?” bringing her fist perilously 
near to Rhody’s face. 

“So he’s your man, eh? Not the girl’s 
father, eh? ” 

Rhody glanced helplessly at both women. 

“ She’s the landlady to Lambert’s,” ex- 
plained the woman, “ and she’s mad clean 
through.” 

“ Aye, that I am, Susan Strong,” assented 
the woman. “ I’ll fix ’em ; we’ll fix ’em. 
Come on! ” 

“ She’ll quiet down soon and you won’t 
know her, she’ll be so nice to you,” whispered 
Susan Strong. 

Mrs. Lambert led them up a short street to 
the front of a long, low, roadside tavern. 
Through the open door they could look in to 
193 


R H O D Y 


the bar-room. There were a number of men 
there variously occupied; some were smoking 
around the crackling fire; others were playing 
cards; Joe sat by the counter gaily laughing 
and talking with the keeper of the Inn. 

The women stood outside, debating. 

“ You take Mis’ Meserve up to your settin’- 
room, Mis’ Lambert,” suggested Susan Strong. 
“ She’s all tuckered out; she oughter rest ’fore 
she tackles that man. Good bye,” she said, 
turning to Rhody. “ You’re in hard luck and 
I’m sorry for ye.” 

When they reached Mrs. Lambert’s sitting- 
room up-stairs, Rhody sank exhausted into a 
chair. 

“ Here, take a drink o’ water,” said the 
landlady, “ you’re sure beat out.” 

“Yes,” answered Rhody, fighting hard for 
breath. 

“ My, this is hard on you. How come you 
found them out? ” 

“ Her mother wrote me they was here. 
When can I speak with him? ” 

Mrs. Lambert pointed to a door across the 
hall. “ Over there’s my daughter’s room, and 

194 


R H O D Y 


out of pity for that minx we let her share it 
with our girl. She’ll come up soon now when 
the dishes are done and slip off her apern and 
tidy up her hair, then he’ll come up and set in 
that rocker over there — they’ll leave the door 
open, like it is now, and they’ll laugh and talk 
till ten o’clock. Sometimes they go out a 
spell. When he goes away, he kisses and pets 
her some, like she was a child, then goes to his 
room over the way.” 

Rhody listened and prayed that she might 
die. 

Presently they heard the girl come down the 
corridor; as she reached the door of her room 
she looked over and nodded to the landlady. 

“ Got through early, Mis’ Lambert. Me 
and Pa’s going for a stroll, the night’s so 
nice.” 

Rhody drove her nails into the palms of her 
clenched hands. She wanted to rush upon the 
girl and tear her limb from limb, but Mrs. 
Lambert turned a warning look toward her and 
she controlled herself. 

After a time Joe came down the hall and 
rapped on the girl’s door; she called to him to 
195 


R H O D Y 


come in. He left the door ajar and seated 
himself in a rocking-chair. 

“I’m dead,” thought Rhody; “I’m dead, 
and I’m seeing from another world, and oh, 
Lord, it must be from Hell ! ” There was a 
humming and buzzing in her ears, but she was 
presently roused by the landlady’s starting to 
her feet and whispering, “ I can’t stand this 
another minute, come on.” She dragged poor 
Rhody with her across the hall. 

“ Josephy,” she said, without preamble, 
“ there is a lady here as would like to speak 
with you.” 

Joe turned and saw Rhody. He started 
violently, then slowly rising, with a lordly- 
wave of his hand, he said, “Why, Ma! you 
look poorly; take a chair, won’t ye? ” 

Rhody staggered toward him. “Joe! ” she 
cried; “ Joe, come home! ” 

Then the storm broke; the girl became hys- 
terical; she tore her hair and screamed. “ Go 
’way! go ’way! Tell ’em to go, Joe, I ain’t a 
bad girl, I ain’t broke up no home; send that 
woman away,” pointing to Rhody. 

“ Not much,” cried the landlady with scorn- 
196 


R H O D Y 


ful decision. “ Not any rate tell the two of 
ye has heard what I have to say.” Then she 
poured forth upon them a torrent of abuse; 
and the more invectives she hurled, the angrier 
she grew. Her hearers stood dazed before 
her. In the midst of her tirade Mr. Lambert 
put in an appearance. “ Hush your noise, 
Mary, the men down below has got on to this 
here Josephy-Meserve outfit from Susan 
Strong, and they’ll be up here if you don’t quit 
this. They’re deciding now whether they’ll 
tar an’ feather or lynch him.” 

** Lynch him? cried all three women. 

“ They’ll do it over my dead body,” said 
Rhody defiantly. Joe clutched her by the 
hand, and she grew instantly calm — he needed 
her; she was there. 

“ Save him I ” groaned Mrs. Lambert, wring- 
ing her hands. 

“ Get him into some of your clothes. Mis’ 
Lambert,” urged the girl, forgetting her hys- 
terics. 

They dressed him quickly in a skirt of Mrs. 
Lambert’s, threw a shawl about his shoulders, 
and tied a checkered gingham sunbonnet on his 

1^7 


R H O D Y 


head; then, cautiously following the landlady, 
they stole down the back stairs, passed through 
the stable-yard into an orchard and over to a 
deserted hay-loft. 

“ Now you stay here till things quiet down 
and I can get hold of my husband,” she said. 

They sat on the floor of the cobwebby loft. 
Joe, the picture of woe, was shaking from head 
to foot; with chattering teeth and breath com- 
ing in spasmodic jerks, he huddled close to 
Rhody. For a long time neither spoke; then 
in a hoarse whisper he asked, “ Rhody, what on 
earth p’sessed you to do this?” 

“ I had to, Joe, to bring you to your senses.” 

“What for?” 

“ You’ve done ’bout the worst thing a man 
can do, Joe.” 

“I know it. What do you want of me? 
I’ve never been nothing but a misery to you, 
why don’t you let me go? I’m no good.” 

“ I can’t let you go. I took you for better, 
for worse; this is the worse, and I’m going to 
stand by you and bring you to yourself. Why, 
man,” she whispered, putting her arm about 
his neck, “ you’re in a bad dream.” 

198 


R H O D Y 


“ No,” he returned, “ I know what IVe 
done, it’s bad. And I know how good you are 
and always was; how patient and long suffer- 
ing, but, Rhody, — I can’t tell how it is — I’m 
just bound up in Allie.” 

“ I know you are now, Joe,” she answered 
gently, “ it’s some way my fault. If I’d stayed 
in the show business you’d still be bound up in 
me.” 

“By ginger, Rhody!” he cried, “you’ve 
struck it. It was you going back on me drove 
me to this — I had to have a working mate. 
Don’t blame me, Rhody, you can see it 
all.” 

“I can,” she whispered, “all; that’s why 
I’m here. I’ve come to take you home. Once 
you’re with me, you’ll forget her.” 

As Rhody said this, a feeling of intense pity 
for the girl swept over her. “ Oh,” she 
thought, “ how hard it is — she took Joe from 
me, and now I must take him from her.” 

“ Mebbe you’re right, Rhody,” Joe an- 
swered presently, “ but how will I ever leave 
here alive? The men will be after me by 
morning. We’re like rats in a trap.” 

199 


R H O D Y 


She looked through a break in the wall. 
“Everything’s quiet, lights are all out; I ’spi- 
cion they think you’re safe till morning at Lam- 
bert’s. I’ll run over and see Mr. and Mrs. 
Lambert — their light is still burning.” 

The landlord and his wife were holding anx- 
ious counsel in their room when Rhody joined 
them. 

“ The men, ’spite of all I can do, say they 
will tar and feather Josephy at sun-up. Mis’ 
Meserve,” was Lambert’s greeting as Rhody 
went into the room. “ Could you sneak him 
out on the three-thirty in the morning?” 

“ Yes,” she replied. 

“I’ll help you,” he said. “Tarrin’ and 
featherin’ ain’t to my taste, though the man’s 
a skelleweg.” 

“When shall I take him to the station?” 
she asked. 

“ I’ll come for you,” he answered. 

The sound of sobbing came from the room 
across the hall. 

“ They think he’s safe here,” said Mrs. 
Lambert. 

The sobbing grew louder. “ I can’t stand 
200 


R H O D Y 


hearing that,” cried Rhody, “ I know too well 
what it means.” 

She crossed the hall and went over to the 
girl who lay face down upon the bed, weeping 
convulsively. 

“ Allie,” said Rhody, bending over and 
stroking her hair; “Allie, try to quiet down 
and listen to me.” 

“ Go away,” screamed the girl. 

“No,” answered Rhody firmly; “no, you 
must listen. I ain’t come to revile you, I’m 
come to show you how wrong this is and to ask 
you to help me put Joe back in the right path.” 

The girl writhed, but Rhody continued, the 
tones of her voice — always low and musical 

— were now peculiarly sweet, full of heart- 
break, and the girl in spite of herself was forced 
to listen. “ Allie, we both love him, that’s the 
size of it; he’s a taking man, but what we want 
is to see him good.” 

“ I don’t ! ” snapped Allie, flinging her head 
up from the pillows, “ I want him to myself, 
and he wants me ; I’m young and pretty and you 

— you’re old and scrawny. What’ll become 
of me if Joe turns good? ” 

201 


R H O D Y 


“What’ll become of you if he don’t? Oh, 
child,” ignoring the insult, “ go home — go 
home, and begin again.” 

“ I won’t go home,” shrieked the girl in a 
rage. “ I won’t go home, and if you take Joe 
from me I’ll get even with you — see if I 
don’t I ” 

“ Allie,” Rhody’s voice was very sad, 
“ I’m sorry for you — as sorry as I am for my- 
self.” 

“ Go ’long with your sorrow.” 

“ My girl, the day will come when you’ll 
thank me for this,” said Rhody gently, as she 
left the room. 

“ Rhody,” said Joe, coming into the kitchen 
several weeks later, “ I’m called to join a com- 
pany in Portland at once.” 

“ Joe, give it up.” 

“I can’t; but I’m going to make a new 
start. You’ve been a good wife, I want you 
should trust me.” 

“ Oh, Joe,” she cried, a sudden fierce revolt 
seizing her, “ don’t, don’t go ! ” 

“ You don’t trust me.” 


202 


R H O D Y 


“ Yes, but—” 

“ ril work alone, Rhody.” 

“ Will you quit that girl? ” 

“Well, you see, it’s like this: we own the 
traps together and I got her into all this, so, 
like a man of honor, I must get her out.” He 
thrust his hands into his pockets, inflated his 
chest, and began to strut up and down the 
room, like a peacock. 

“ She’s a bold-faced hussy,” Rhody flared 
out, beside herself with despair, “ a disgrace 
to her sex! ” 

“ Don’t, don’t,” cried Joe, backing away. 
“ It makes me feel bad to hear you speak so of 
Allie.” 

“ How about me — have you no pity for 
me?” 

“ Yes, yes, Rhody; but, while I’m sorry for 
you, it’s Allie I really pity.” 

She let him go; she realized the futility of 
any efforts to restrain him. 


203 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER XV 

Tourists who to-day drive for the first time 
along the old turnpike from Rodney to Lan- 
caster notice only the beauty of the way; but 
we, who have known the countryside full well 
for many a year, are amazed at the changes 
time has brought. 

Rodney Mills is now a town boasting an 
electric light plant, a suburban trolley station, 
an automobile garage, and other modern “ im- 
provements.” 

Homes have sprung up along the highway 
on land bought from the owners of the old 
homesteads. It would be difficult to find 
Markham’s farm, for a stately residence now 
stands where once the house and barns and 
windmill were. But yonder is a cottage nes- 
tling in the hollow amid a clump of gnarled and 
twisted oaks; the grove and the moss-covered 
well-sweep are familiar, but the cottage was 
not there thirty years ago. It is built of old 
204 


R H O D Y 


and weathern-beaten logs and is literally cov- 
ered with vines. Hops, honeysuckles, roses, 
and woodbine, twine and twist about it where 
their own wild wills direct, while on every side 
a riot of old-fashioned bloom adds charming 
color to the whole. 

No “suburbanite” lives here — but we 
shall see. 

About four o’clock of a crisp September aft- 
ernoon a carriage drawn by a pair of well- 
groomed horses, drew up before the gate of the 
vine-clad cottage. As an elderly lady alighted 
from the carriage, the cottage door swung open 
and a tall, spare, white-haired woman hurried 
out. They met midway of the path. In the 
eyes of each were tears. 

“Mis’ Owen! ” 

“ Rhody!” 

A quarter of a century had passed since last 
they met. California had become the home 
of Rita Owen where, in the absorbing life of an 
orange plantation, she had passed gracefully 
into old age. Her face, always full of charm, 
now radiated the beauty of the free soul within. 

205 


R H O D Y 


Her snow-white hair made a fitting frame for 
her soft, fair skin and glowing black eyes. 
Life had been kind to her, and every line 
showed it. 

That time had been less kind to Rhody was 
only too apparent to the friend of bygone 
years. 

It is a far cry from the day when little 
Rhody Markham climbed with Mirandy to the 
top of the old windmill and yet she is the same 
Rhody still. She represents a certain New 
England type, — uneducated; narrowed by en- 
vironment; but keen of intellect, and with a 
ready original wit; generous and self-sacri- 
ficing. She has seen a “ sight ” of one side of 
life, but despite experience has remained old- 
fashioned to a surprising degree, reverting to 
the dialect and the customs of her parents. 

“Well, Rhody!” exclaimed Rita, the greet- 
ing over, “ who but you would ever have built 
such a home in these days of shingle and 
brick.” 

She paused before entering to admire and 
exclaim. 

“ Mebbe you’re larfin’ in yer sleeve. Mis’ 
206 



They met midway of the path 





\ 


t 










R H O D Y 


Owen, same as most o’ folks does when they 
see a log-house a settin’ in the trees ; but I can’t 
bear to see things go to waste, so when Mr. 
Deusenbury pulled down the homestead I 
bought the logs. I took the hollow and the 
fields beyond for my share when the farm was 
divided, so’s to keep the old well. Then I sold 
the fields and built my own home here, and Mr. 
Deusenbury says he likes my idees about pre- 
servin’ some of the old things along with the 
new. But come in. Miss Rita — Lord, but it’s 
good to see you ! ” 

“ Rhody, this is charming, really,” cried 
Rita as they entered a long, low, raftered 
room. 

“ It’s the picture of our home kitchen, only 
some smaller.” 

Rita looked about the quaintly picturesque 
room with keen enjoyment. 

The cottage contained one large main room, 
a pantry and a “ best room ” in the wing. An 
alcove, curtained off with Turkey red, gave 
place at one end of the living-room for a' huge 
four-post mahogany bedstead, a much prized 
heirloom. A mahogany high-boy near the 
207 


R H O D Y 


chimney-piece, a hanging moon-faced clock, 
and a couple of highly polished brass kettles 
gave distinction to the plain but homelike 
room. 

It was evident that the cooking was done 
upon the open hearth or in the brick oven at 
one side. 

“ Fm glad you like it. Miss Rita, it’s built 
’cording to my notions; no newfangles about 
it. Here — ain’t I the forgetful — do lay off 
your things. I’ll chirk up the fire — it’s a bit 
chilly these days.” 

“ Rhody,” said Rita, taking the deep arm- 
chair by the fire, “ you don’t work as you used 
to, do you ? ” 

“No, marm; Johnnie wouldn’t hear of it. 
Besides, there ain’t no ’casion for it. I have 
enough laid by to keep me, from my share of 
the farm.” 

“I am so glad, Rhody; you have always 
been so brave.” 

“ Oh, as to that, I dunno; there’s been times 
when I was rebellious and discouraged, but 
now Johnnie’s raised and married and a com- 
fort as I’ve often wrote ye. He’s not a 

208 


R H O D Y 


money-maker, but he’s honest and his drug 
business is doing well, and his wife’s a good 
and savin’ woman, so you see I ain’t got much 
to worry me.” 

“ And Joe, not a word? ” 

“ Never a word since he left me thirty years 
ago. He asked me to trust him ; I did, and I 
have, and I will. He’s dead, most like, for if 
he was livin’ he’d at least have come home to 
die; he can’t have acted for the last fifteen 
year.” 

“ Rhody, would you — would you take him 
back?” 

“ Yes, marm; if he’s dead, I forgive him, for 
by now he’s come to himself. If he’s livin’, 
he’s cornin’ home to ask for my forgiveness, 
and — he’ll git it.” 

For a moment Rita said nothing; then 
turning to the woman beside her — “ Rhody,” 
she said, “ you are the most remarkable 
person I have ever known ; I do not understand 
you; I am afraid you are too big for me.” 

“ Hush, hush, don’t never speak the like of 
that again. I’m only a plain woman who 
learned the meanin* of love very young. And 
209 


R H O D Y 


now, Miss Rita, make yourself to home while 
I make a cup of tea ; I have some of the spice- 
cake you admire so.” 

It was not long before a daintily prepared 
tray was set on a stand between them. 

“You have not forgotten your craft,” said 
Rita, taking a piece of cake. 

“ No, I always keep things on hand ’case 
folks come in, but this I made special because 
you was cornin’.” 

“ Now tell me, Rhody dear, all, all that has 
been happening to you in these years. Thomas 
will not be back for a long time. I want the 
afternoon with you.” 

“ God bless you, marm I Who could give 
me such pleasure? There ain’t much to tell; 
you see my home — I call it my castle in the 
air — for years I dreamed of just this, where 
me and Joe could live and die. That was be- 
fore I made up my mind he was dead. Miss 
Rita,” she continued, leaning forward and 
speaking impressively, “ ye’ve got to build yer 
castles in the air fust, then bring ’em down to 
earth and pin ’em thar; that’s why I call this 
my castle in the air.” 


210 


R H O D Y 


She hesitated a moment, then rose and crossed 
the room to a narrow cupboard. “ Mis’ 
Owen,” she called, “ come here, I wonder will 
you think me crazy if I show you another 
castle brought to earth.” She opened the door 
displaying a highly polished rosewood coffin 
lined with bright pink satin. 

“ Rhody ! Rhody ! ” cried Rita, aghast, 
“ what are you doing with a coffin in the 
house? ” 

“ I knew you’d think me daffy, but I’m not. 
Did you ever think about it. Miss Rita, that a 
coffin is something you can have for your very 
own; no one would take it from you or want it. 
Your house you leave to some one, and your 
money, but your coffin goes with you; besides 
— oh, well, I know you can’t understand — 
see here — ” She stepped over to the high-boy 
and, opening a drawer, lifted out a bundle care- 
fully pinned together. She took it to the bed 
and opened it. “ Shroud, too,” she exclaimed 
with a happy catch in her voice as she held the 
long white garment up before her. “ I em- 
broidered it last winter — passion-flowers — 
Lord knows, them seems the flowers for my 
211 


R H O D Y 


shroud; I put ’em on back and front. Emma 
come up the day I finished it and she says, 
‘ What do you want embroid’ry back and front 
for, who’s ever going to see the back? Most 
of shrouds,* she says, ‘ are only fronts.’ ‘ No 
fronts for me,* I says, ‘ come Jedgment Day 
I’m going to do no running ’round bare-back; 
I want to feel free to come and go. There’ll 
be folks as I shall wish to see; ’tain’t right to 
be careless ’bout such things.’ ” 

Rita only shook her head and tried to take 
the matter seriously, as Rhody did, but it was 
impossible. “ Oh, Rhody, Rhody,” she 
laughed, “ I knew you had been up to some- 
thing.” 

“ Come over by the fire now and set down.” 

“Tell me where and how you got that cof- 
fin, Rhody, it seems such a gruesome idea, to 
have one’s own coffin in the house.” 

“ I take it gruesome means creepy. Mis’ 
Owen,” laughed Rhody “ I can’t see into it 
why the idee of a coffin’s any worse nor the 
idee of makin’ a will or of buildin’ a tomb. 
It’s all ’bout the same thing. Now to my way 
o’ lookin’ at it, it’s cheerin’ and comfortin’ to 


212 


R H O D Y 


think them things is ready and pervided 
for.” 

“ I dare say you are right,” answered Rita. 
“ Now let me hear about it, dear.” 

” It was like this — when I was a little girl 
to Martin’s farm, I seen a poor old woman 
carried out of her house in a wooden box and 
buried in the strangers’ corner of the church- 
yard, and I heard the folks say as she’d been 
buried by the county; and they talked so kind 
of mean ag’in’ her, poor soul, that it made an 
awful ’pression on me, and I vowed then that 
when I was old I’d have a coffin of my own 
ready. Of course, as I growed up I forgot 
all about it, but after the house got built and I 
settled down here, one day it suddenly come 
upon me that I was gettin’ old; that ’fore long 
I’d be going; and then I remembered about the 
coffin, and from that on the idee that every one 
should be prepared to be buried respectable just 
got p’session of me. Of course, we have our 
family churchyard lot; so, soon’s I could, I set 
to work to earn the money to get me a coffin. 
Johnnie he made an awful fuss about me work- 
ing, but I said I couldn’t rest ’thout doin’ some- 
213 


R H O D Y 


thing. I never to)d him what I was working 
for, believe me, he’d have thought me as crazy 
as you do.” 

“ Dear Rhody, I don’t think you crazy, only 
— only different from any one I have ever 
known.” 

“Well, I am as the Almighty made me! 
But, say, mebbe I didn’t have a time gettin’ 
that money saved. Every time I’d get a little 
put by for that fund seemed like it would have 
to go here, there, or som’ers. I never could 
get ahead with the thing, till about five years 
ago I had enough, and was goin’ to town to get 
it, when Johnnie took sick. So, of course, I 
went to their place and helped to take care of 
him, and you know how ’tis when there’s sick- 
ness ’round: you think of one nice thing for 
’em and then another. So ’twas with me, and 
first I knowed most of the coffin money was 
gone — what was left I sent over for the doctor 
bill. Now, you’ll say I didn’t have to pay that. 
Johnnie he didn’t want to take it, but as I told 
him, it was my pleasure, but achely that bill 
kep’ starin’ me in the face, wakin’ and sleepin’. 
I argued this way: Johnnie had a growin’ fam- 
Z14. 


R H O D Y 


ily; how dared I keep that money; and how 
could I ever enjoy a coffin bought under such 
circumstances? I’ve never been sorry I done 
it, either; but, of course, I had to start right in 
again. Every dollar I earned went into the 
coffee pot on the mantel, and by-n-by I had 
enough saved. 

“ It was on a Tuesday in May I dressed 
and started for Lancaster. I ain’t forgot a 
thing that happened that day. I started in 
plenty o’ time to catch the six-thirty train, for 
I wanted a good long day to pick and choose in, 
so I was out of the house by five. Say, ain’t it 
nice in the early mornin’ ? As I walked to the 
village I was jest took up with how nice it was, 
and how free I should feel once that coffin was 
in the house. The cows was a-stretchin’ of 
themselves and gittin’ ready for milkin’ time; 
the cocks was a-crowin’; and here and there a 
sleepy farm han’ would come out a back door 
with his milkin’ pail. When I got down by 
the post-office, I seen Miss Milikins a-takin’ 
down the store shutters, so I stepped in and 
asked her was there a letter in the box for me 
— I thought as I might have one from Josiah, 

21S 


R H O D Y 


my brother in Californy. There weren’t no 
letter from Josiah, but there was one from the 
State Lunatic ’Sylum, sayin’ as Joe’s old father 
was dead — over a hundred year old he was, 
fifty year or more in the ’Sylum — and sayin’ 
as how I was all the kin as they knew of, and on- 
less I could do something he’d hev to be buried 
on the town. Well, do what I would I couldn’t 
enjoy another minute. I’d started out intend- 
in’ to have a reel jolly little spree all 
by myself, when here comes along this letter 
to throw cold water on it. I went to Lancas- 
ter, but all the tuck was took out of me, and all 
I could do was to think of the poor old man 
dyin’ away from home and bein’ buried on the 
town, for he’d been a harmless critter if 
he was crazy, and he was Joe Meserve’s father 
— and that set me thinkin’ about Joe. So 
when I got to the undertaker’s all the sperit of 
the thing was gone, and I was like a wilted rag; 
but I looked over coffins and picked out a reel 
han’some thing — rosewood, lined with white 
satin brocade. 

“‘Where shall I send it?’ says the man. 
‘To — to — Mr. Meserve,’ and my tongue 

216 


R H O D Y 


jest clung to the roof of my mouth, and for a 
bit I couldn’t say one word. Then arter a lit- 
tle, I says, ‘ To the State ’Sylum,’ says 1.” 

“ Rhody ! ” exclaimed Rita. 

“Well, dear, you see I had to — the words 
was jest jerked out of me.” 

“ What did you do then? ” 

“ Went ’long o’ the coffin and seen the old 
man laid away decent; ’twas the least I could 
do for his son — ” Here her voice broke, but 
after a short pause she continued: “ So I went 
back ag’in to the empty coffee pot, and three 
year ago I bought this one — ain’t it a 
beauty?” She walked across the room and 
stood with one hand holding the cupboard door 
open, while with the other she caressed the 
polished surface of the coffin. 

Rita said nothing — she could find nothing 
to say. 

Finally Rhody closed and locked the door 
and went over to the bed. “ Every thread 
of this is linen,” she said, folding the shroud 
away. 

“ Rhody,” said Rita, for the want of some- 
thing better to say, “ how came you to choose 
217 


R H O D Y 


a pink lining, you who have such an aversion 
to pink? 

Rhody laughed. “ You’ve caught me there, 
I was wonderin’ if you’d notice. This here was 
made for a man as wished for a pink linin’ In 
his coffin; but, when they come to measure him 
after he’d passed away, some ways a mistake 
was made, and when they took It home It was 
too short. It’s long for me. The man as 
sold it give me a price on It and, as I don’t be- 
lieve in slightin’ a bargain as Is a bargain, I put 
aside my feelings and took It; besides my hair 
is white now, all the red is gone; I won’t look 
so humly In it.” 

On her way back to Rodney, Rita had much 
food for thought. Her old friend had lost 
none of her quaint, spontaneous charm, nor was 
she one whit less original. “ I cannot always 
understand her,” thought Rita, “ but — 


“ ‘ So, I think, God hides some souls away. 
Sweetly to surprise us, the last day.’ ” 


R H O D Y 


CHAPTER XVI 

“ Come m, Mis’ Owen,” said Rhody, open- 
ing the cottage door, “ I’m glad to see you, but 
so sorry to think it’s our last visit together — 
perhaps forever — you go to-morrow, sure?” 

“ Yes, to-morrow we are to have Thanks- 
giving dinner with Polly and the children in 
New York. But don’t say the good-bye is for- 
ever, Rhody dear; I expect to see you many, 
many times again.” 

“ God grant it may be so ! Set here. Miss 
Rita, in the rocker; it’s cold, ain’t it?” 

“ We shall have a storm by night,” answered 
Rita. 

“ I’m ’feared so. I’m expecting Johnnie and 
his family down for Thanksgivin’ dinner, but 
they can’t bring the baby if it storms.” 

For a long time the two friends chatted to- 
gether of old times and departed friends; of 
Rita’s new life in California and Rhody’s new 
interests in Johnnie’s family. 

219 


R H O D Y 


“ By the way, Rhody,’* said Rita, “ you told 
me the other day when you were down that 
you would have a surprise for me when I came 
again.” 

Rhody’s face brightened. “ So I did, and 
it’s ready. I s’pect you’ll think it some more 
of my craziness — it’s hand in hand with the 
coffin and the shroud. One thing I must say, 
Mis’ Owen, it don’t seem to make one particle 
of diff’rence if you understand or not, I always 
had to, and always shall, tell you every last 
thing.” 

“ Dear Rhody,” said Rita, “ I at least try to 
understand.” 

“ That’s it, you don’t call me fool first clip,” 
she said with a laugh. 

She went to the four-post bedstead and 
pulled from beneath it a large oval frame ; then, 
recrossing the room, she solemnly seated her- 
self in front of Rita, so that the frame rested 
between them on their knees. 

“ What is this? ” asked Rita. 

“ A rug.” 

Rita looked at the piece of work upon her 
knee and thought it the most hideous thing she 

22Q 


R H O D Y 


had ever seen. Yet evidently she was expected 
to behold and admire. Rhody, however, saved 
her any comment. 

“ Did you ever read the ‘ ’Fore Room Rug? ’ 
Emma read it to me when I was sick to their 
place last winter with rheumatiz; It’s the only 
story ’t ever I read as is worth the paper It’s 
printed on, ’cept Bible Stories.” 

“ No,” said Rita, “ I never read it.” 

“ It’s the story of two women put into a rug; 
those women are real, they’re true. When you 
left me first time you was here, I set a long time 
lookin’ In the fire. So much we had talked 
about brought other things to mind; then, 
thinkin’ I mustn’t set idle dreamln’ like a child, 
I picked up a bag of pieces I had brought down 
from the attic to cut up into carpet rags. It 
was stuff I put away years ago in Ma’s attic — 
you know I never throw away one last thing — 
well, as I began to sort and cut, I come across a 
piece of my weddin’ dress — gray It was — and 
my white ribbon sash, and the sleeve of Joe’s 
weddin’ coat, and Johnnie’s first white dress. 
‘ Land,’ I says, all of a suddint, ‘ if a story-rug 
could be made from Diadeemy and Lovey’s 
221 


R H O D Y 


life, why, Rhody Meserve, you could make a 
record-breaker.’ ” 

Rita uttered a slight exclamation, but Rhody, 
full of her story, went on. 

“ So I went to work on Ma’s old in-and-out 
rug frame; now see. Miss Rita: — center, two 
hearts; one, black (Joe’s coat) ; t’other, white, 
(my sash), joined with a red arrer piercin’ 
’em (from his weddin’ necktie — red’s a glo- 
rious color!) and this blue, bunched in like for- 
get-me-nots, is off my best blue apern in mem- 
ory of them first happy months. Then comes 
two rows of gray — gray’s a misfort’nit color 
— this marks the time Joe left me. Seems 
suitable, don’t it? ” 

Rita coughed and nodded. 

“ Next, I have three rows of white pulled 
in like daisies to commem’rate Johnnie’s corn- 
in’; two braided rows from Joe’s red flan- 
nel shirt, the one he wore when he come back; 
then black from the dress I wore those years 
of misery and torture ; a brown rolled row off ’n 
Mis’ Curtis’s brown balmoral, that commem’- 
rates the time I sassed your Aunt Caroline — 
that’s the only funny bit in the rug and it’s only 
222 


R H O D Y 


funny to look back on. These pink roses is our 
circus days, and the black silk plain row’s the 
dress I wore when I s’prised him at Salem — 
that’s all now, I’ve left room for a row of 
pink and white from the coffin and the shroud 
to be put in by Emma, when I’m gone. What 
do you think of it. Mis’ Owen? ” 

“ It is a record-breaker ! ” was all that Rita 
could say. 

Just then Thomas arrived at the door, and 
Rita arose to say good-bye. 

“ Rhody, Rhody dear,” she said, kissing her, 
“ God bless you I ” 

“ God bless you, marm 1 ” 

The storm, which had been threatening all 
day, broke as evening closed darkly in; and the 
wind, moaning through the oaks, hurled sleet 
and rain against the cottage. Rhody stirred 
the fire and brought lamps, setting one on a 
stand near the window. “ It’s a fearsome 
night; this will guide any one unfort’nit enough 
to be out.” 

Never willingly idle, she took up a bit of sew- 
ing — a child’s garment — and, as her fingers 

223 


R H O D Y 


worked, she gladly let her thoughts wander 
back to long gone years. How much she had 
to be thankful for — old friends, many now 
gone, but all still loving her as she loved them; 
the fond family of an only son; ever-present 
memories of joyous days with dear, kind Joe. 
“ Oh, yes, it can’t be long now. I’ll meet him 
where he’s been waitin’ these many years for 
me. Forgive? — There’ll be nothing to for- 
give ; it’s all forgot, Joe dear, — all ’cept the 
good and happy hours.” 

Laying aside her work, she read it again in 
the book she loved: there shall be no more 
death; nor pain of parting forevermore; and 
sorrow and sighing shall flee away. 

With a thankful, hopeful heart she arose 
from her reading to set the fastenings for the 
night. As she approached the door, a force- 
ful gust scattered sheets of sleet against her 
“ lighthouse window,” and the cottage quivered. 
Just then the door burst open and an old man, 
feeble, haggard, and drenched as if the storm 
had beaten on him for hours, reeled into the 
room and fell before her. 

Recovering quickly from the first shock caused 

224 


R H O D Y 


by this ghastly apparition, Rhody, half carry- 
ing, half dragging the unconscious man, finally 
got him into a low arm-chair before the fire. 

She chafed his hands, and wiped his dripping 
face and thin gray hair with her apron, but he 
neither moved nor spoke. She finally removed 
his rain-soaked coat by dint of rolling him from 
side to side. Then, throwing wood upon the 
fire, she swung the kettle crane forward, that 
water might heat, and put blankets and com- 
forters before the fire to warm. 

“ He’s some poor unfort’nit, and he’s a-dyin’ 
on my hands. I’ll do my best for him — he’s 
one of God’s critters, whoever he is,” she mur- 
mured, wrapping the warm things about him. 

As she struggled to loosen the neckband of 
his shirt, that he might breathe freely, the 
lower buttons gave way, baring his chest and 
revealing a tattoed anchor with the letters J 
and M on either side. 

“Lord! God Almighty!” she shrieked, as 
she fell upon her knees and tore apart the shirt 
the better to see the emblem. — “Joe! God, it’s 
him! Joe! Joe, come back! ” she called, lean- 
ing over him, “ come back, come back ! ” And 

L 225 


R H O D Y 


like one already dead, but responding slowly 
to the call from earth, Joe Meserve opened his 
eyes. 

“Does Rhody Meserve live hereabouts?” 
he asked in a whisper. 

“Joe, I’m Rhody I Don’t you know me, 
Joe?” 

“Mrs. Joseph Meserve, I mean; her — as 
— was — Rhody — Markham,” he gasped. 

“Joel Joe! I’m Rhody.” 

“ 7ow — Rhody? Your — hair — is — 
white,” he answered with a shade of scorn, 
“ hers — was — the — color of chestnuts in 
fall.” 

“ It’s thirty year since then. Oh, Joel ” but 
again the man had fainted. 

She seized the kettle and hurriedly made tea. 
Drop by drop she poured it down his throat, 
till gradually he revived and spoke. 

“Rhody, will — you — forgive me?” 

“ Yes, Joe!” 

“I was ’feared — ye — might — be dead.” 

“ I was ’feared that same for you.” 

A long silence followed. Then he fell to 
incoherent mutterings. “ Thirty — year, 

226 


R H O D Y 


thirty — year,” she caught, bringing her ear 
close to his mouth. 

“ Where, Joe?” 

After a long pause : — ‘‘ Prison — State’s 
Prison.” 

“You? Joer^ 

Again he had fainted. She never could tell 
how she did it, but she got him to bed. For 
hours he tossed in pain; and then towards 
morning, slept, waking weak, but for a time 
quite clear in his mind. He was anxious to talk 
and Rhody let him. 

“ Allie done it, Rhody.” 

“ Done what? ” 

“ Sent me up.” 

“ Sent you to prison? ” 

He rose upon his elbow and a wild light 
sprang to his eyes. “ Her, her Allie, D — 
— I” 

Rhody placed her hand over her mouth and 
put him back among the pillows. “ Joe, don’t, 
dear, don’t say it.” 

But he would not be quiet; he poured forth 
his story, at times coherently, at times confused 
as to who his hearers were. Now he ad- 

227 


R H O D Y 


dressed the Judge; again, a stranger; and then 
again, he spoke rationally to Rhody. 

“I done as I said I would, I quit her; I 
couldn’t bear the sight of her, she reminded me 
of so much trouble, Rhody. She was mad. 
‘ I’ll get even with you and the old woman,’ she 
said. We were with the same show, — Judge, 
I was standing at the door of the dressing tent, 
Charlie and me; she joined us. Charlie was 
gay and Allie lotted on him considerable, but 
Harry was rich and lotted on her. ‘ Are you 
coming, Al?’ Harry said, — I heard him, 
Judge, and Charlie he lep’ up. ‘ No, by God ! ’ 
— and—” 

“And what?” asked Rhody, slightly shak- 
ing him, for he had lapsed almost into uncon- 
sciousness. She could not bear the suspense; 
she must know the truth. “And what?” she 
insisted. 

“ Charlie shot Harry dead.” 

“And you? Tell me I And you?” 

“ Oh, I — I — jumped — at — Charlie — 
and, — Judge, — I snatched the pistol from his 
hand, as God is in Heaven, I did, and — and 
then — then — the crowd — came in.” 

228 


R H O D Y 


“Joel Joe!” called Rhody, rousing him, 
“ finish — tell me I ” 

He opened his eyes and looked at her dully. 
“What?” 

“ Tell me, dear.” 

He raised himself enough to wave his hand 
toward the door. “ Allie pointed to me, and 
said, as the folks came running in: ‘He done 
it ! I seen him with my own eyes ’ — Life I I 
never shot the man ! Life, you say I ” 

He fell back and Rhody disturbed him no 
more; hot tears streamed from her eyes as she 
watched him slowly pass away. 

Once more he roused suddenly: he opened 
his eyes and tried to rise, as an expression of 
amazement crept into his face : — “ Free I 
She’s confessed? Alliens dead? I’m free? 
Thirty year, thirty year, and — I — I — 
meant — to — work alone — Rhody I ” 

The following week, Rita Owen, before 
leaving New York for California, went up to 
Rodney to see Rhody. 

She found her seated before the fire, a look 
of placid content upon her sweet face. She 

229 


R H O D Y 


was working a border of roses and daisies Into 
her rug. 

The first greetings over, Rita questioned her 
old friend — “ Why do you finish the rug now, 
Rhody?” 

“ Dear Mis’ Owen,” she replied, the story 
is all told — Joe was burled In the coffin and 
the shroud.” 


230 












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